


A Wreath of Fire

by kitkatkaylie



Series: The Winter's Queen [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Family Fluff, Loras Tyrell is the Beard in the North, Minor Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Multi, Protective Jon Snow, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sibling Bonding, Warging, not Daenerys friendly, post war for the dawn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 97,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22333339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: The Dawn has come again, but the alliances formed under such threat are weak and Westeros is under threat of falling into war once more as factions compete for the Iron Throne.And from the East looms a new threat, one which puts everyone in danger.An AU where family still counts for something in Westeros, where a queen is crowned, and where the pack survives.
Relationships: Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Rickon Stark & Sansa Stark, Oberyn Martell/Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow, Willas Tyrell/Brynden “Blackfish” Tully
Series: The Winter's Queen [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1504532
Comments: 255
Kudos: 616





	1. Arya

**Author's Note:**

> So, Part 3 of the series (and the last full length story I have planned for this). Thank you to everyone who has stuck with it this far! 
> 
> Once more a warning: This will not be Daenerys friendly, it also won't be particularly Tyrion friendly.

Arya found it rather irritating that the constant darkness meant they could not just kill Baelish and have it done with, but the thought of an undead Baelish was rather more horrifying than allowing him to live for a few more days. Besides, him still living meant she would be able to honour a promise she made to herself.

He, and all the other prisoners, had been moved to regular cells instead of the Sky Cells, postponing their executions would do no good if they froze to death in the open rooms.

She approached the cell she knew was Littlefinger’s and barely had to motion to the guard before she was allowed in, it was gratifying really how quickly the people of the Vale had accepted her. Most of the Vale now respected her, not just for her name but for the swiftness in which she had brought their Lady’s murderer to justice. It was a process aided of course, by the bonds she had made while sparring with the men for little created a bond as quickly as a friendly spar.

“Lord Baelish, I think that perhaps you and I might be able to reach an understanding.” Arya said loosely, twisting her dagger in her hand. “I have something you want, and you have something, or rather someone that I want.”

Baelish groaned, from his position against the wall and shielded his eyes from the light leeching through the doorway. Arya was pleased to see that he still had bruises on his face from the rough handling of the guards as they moved him into a cell, he deserved the pain for what he tried to do to Rickon, for what he did do to Gendry.

“What could you possibly want from me? Gold, information, whores?”

Arya smirked, “What I want is the return of a girl you stole, a girl you hid in one of your brothels. I want my sister’s best friend, I want Jeyne Poole, and in return you will not fly. Have Jeyne Poole returned to me, unharmed, and I give you my word as a Stark that you will not go through the Moon Door in payment for your crimes.”

Baelish laughed, a bitter sort of laugh, “You would trade one girl for that? You are as much a fool as your father. We have a deal, little Stark.”

Arya nodded, a short and sharp nod, and turned to leave the room. Just as she was about to close the door she called back to him.

“I will have pen and paper brought to you, so that you might make the arrangements. Should you use this opportunity to break our deal, then I promise you, what the Boltons did to Theon Greyjoy will look as tender as a mother’s kiss compared to what I will do to you.”

She was pleased to hear Littlefinger whimper ever so slightly at her threat. Hopefully it would make him think twice before trying anything.

* * *

Jeyne Poole arrived in the Vale as the dawn finally broke, the bright colours a relief to everyone after a week of darkness. Not just for their beauty, but for what they represented, the hope that sprung into everyone’s hearts at the thought that the dead had been defeated.

They had little news in the Vale about the survivors, and Arya prayed every day that her family had survived, that she would see them again.

Arya had never really thought she would be pleased to see Jeyne Poole, the two of them had never really got along, they consistently had traded barbs and insults back when the world was kind. But yet to see her stood in the entrance hall of the Eyrie was sweet indeed.

“Jeyne!” She flew at her, wanting to wrap the girl she had grown up with in a firm hug.

Jeyne flinched back away from her and looked at Arya with large, wet eyes in a too-thin face.

“Arya?” Her voice was weak and timid, with a tremble running through it like she would burst into tears at any moment.

Arya looked closer at her, at the bruises pressed into her skin, the unnatural paleness of her skin, the kohl smudged around her eyes, and the livid red bite mark on her neck; and her fury grew.

“Who did this to you?” She forced her voice to remain calm and reached a gentle hand to indicate the bite on Jeyne’s neck.

Jeyne shuddered nonetheless and looked around anxiously at the men in the hall. Arya could guess where they had come from, and her suspicions did not help the fury that filled her soul. She slowly, gently, cataloguing every one of her movements, wrapped an arm around Jeyne’s shoulders and directed her to the rooms which Arya and Lyanna shared.

A bath awaited Jeyne there, and Brienne and Osha, for maybe the sight of the two of them would help calm Jeyne a little. Maybe the sight of Brienne’s sword would help to reassure Jeyne that no man would harm her here.

Arya showed Jeyne the bath and told her to just yell if she needed anything. She wanted to give Jeyne as much privacy as she could so she joined the others in the small solar, leaving Jeyne the privacy of the bedchamber to have her bath.

Brienne wrapped her in a hug as soon as she ventured into the solar, a gesture she did not quite understand until she caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. Arya’s skin was paler than usual, and she looked almost haunted; she looked as she had before she found her family again.

She desperately wanted to lean into Brienne’s warmth, the stability she offered, but she could not. Not when Jeyne might need her, not when Gendry was still so very weak, when he still had not woken up.

There was an ugly feeling in her chest when she thought of what had happened to Jeyne, to Gendry. What had almost happened to Rickon and herself. The way that Lord Baelish looked at her sister with covetous eyes.

Littlefinger would die for his crimes against her family, but first she would make him suffer.

* * *

Gendry was pale and wan, his eyes still closed and his breathing still shallow. The Maester had said there was a high chance he would wake up, that it was just a matter of waiting for it, but Arya did not want him to wait. She wanted him by her side at that moment, for even when he was being stupid he was a comfort to her, and she wanted that comfort. Wanted that reassurance that he brought her.

She sat down heavily at his bedside and took hold of his stupid hand.

“You can’t leave me, stupid.” She whispered angrily, “I forbid it.”

Gendry did not react to her words, his eyes didn’t flutter open, he didn’t groan or anything, he just lay there stubbornly asleep.

Arya angrily scrubbed a hand across her face, she would not cry at the thought of losing her friend. She would not cry at the thought of losing Gendry when he might still wake up, not when she still did not know who of her family had survived the Long Night.

She found that she could not sit long by his bed, not when she had so much to do. Not when it hurt too much to see him lifeless.

She squeezed his hand one last time and stood up to leave, she would return the next day if the Maester said there was no change in his condition.

Robin was stood outside Gendry’s sick room, his expression absolutely miserable. When he saw Arya he sniffed heavily and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Arya asked, startled to see the tears welling up in Robin’s eyes.

“Now the sun has come back your going to leave me!” He accused. “You and everyone else is going to leave me here all by myself and you are going to forget all about me!”

Oh. Robin was scared of being left alone again, now that he did not even have his mother for company.

Arya resisted the urge to sigh and instead pulled him into a hug.

“Don’t be silly. You know I’m coming back, we’re betrothed, remember?”

Robin sniffed and looked up at her, “You’re sure? And you’ll bring Gendry too?”

“Of course I will. And Lyanna.” Arya stroked his hair gently, “And you’ll be so busy learning how to be a good lord that you won’t even notice we’re gone.”

Robin’s arms tightened around her, “You’ll write lots, won’t you?”

Arya wasn’t sure when exactly she had started to care for him, but it was undeniable that she had. Her heart clenched slightly at the forlorn way he asked her, as though he was expecting her to refuse.

“As often as I can.” She promised, “And I’ll come and visit as well, and you can come see me at Winterfell. And you know, if I take too long Nymeria will drag me here so she can see Mors.”

Robin giggled at her words, and likely the image they prompted of her being dragged by her own direwolf across the North and Vale just to see a puppy. It was a sweet sound, one heard far too rarely since the Long Night had started, and one that Arya was glad to hear.

For the first time since her betrothal had been negotiated, Arya did not hate the thought of returning to the Vale and Robin’s side. Not when he seemed to genuinely care for her, and her friends. Not when he seemed impressed rather than horrified by her love of swordplay. Not when she was sure that he would not force her to give up her interests.

She released him from the hug and scuffed at his hair, “Come on. Let’s go see if we can find something sweet in the kitchens. We’ll need it before the trial later.”

Robin beamed at her and took her arm in his and started to drag her to the kitchens and Arya let him.

It was strange, but she thought she might actually miss him when she returned home.

* * *

“Remind me, my lords, how is it that rapists are punished in the Vale? Is it the same as in the North?” Arya asked idly, looking down at Baelish.

“Aye, my lady. It is the same.” One of the lords answered, and his words made a bloodthirsty snarl form upon Arya’s face.

“Excellent. Lord Petyr Baelish, although your other crimes have not yet been examined, I am able to pronounce you guilty of orchestrating the rape of a Lady of the North, and of forcing her to work in your brothels. Although you may never have touched her yourself, you are guilty of arranging it and thus your punishment will be as though you had touched her.” Arya commanded, “In the name of Queen Sansa, I Arya Stark, Princess of Winter, sentence you to castration, to be carried out immediately.”

It was mostly old men or young boys who made up the lords of the Vale, with so many of them fighting at the Wall, but there were a few women who had taken over in place of fathers or brothers, and each of those had a vengeful smile upon their face at her pronouncement.

A few of the men blanched, but none of the men Arya knew had benefitted from Littlefinger’s lordship dared to speak up. A snigger came from one of the women, from Lord Royce’s niece, and Arya had to suppress a smirk as she wondered aloud whether Littlefinger was an apt name. from the red flush of anger on Baelish’s neck, it seemed that Arya was not the only one to hear that jape.

“My lady,” Someone who seemed to gain a little confidence called out, “It is not the usual way, to make a man undergo multiple punishments. Surely only the most severe retribution should be carried out.”

Arya could see many of the lords nodding their heads in agreement and she had to surpass a rush of anger at their blasé reaction to the exploitation of a girl who had not yet flowered. She slammed her hands down on the arms of her chair and stormed to her feet.

“Maybe so. But in my sister’s kingdom no man will escape the punishment for rape. Lord Baelish will be castrated, and he will be executed. That is not up for discussion, my lords.” Arya ranted; her temper only slightly mollified by the glares that the ladies sent to the lord who had spoken.

“My lords, I would ask you to have care when speaking to my betrothed.” Robin stood up, his voice barely wavering as he stared at the lords, “She speaks with my full authority as well as her own as your Princess.”

Arya smiled at him, a short, sweet, grateful smile. His defence of her was sweet, and if it made the lords listen to her then it would be something she would be grateful for.

“Lady Osha?” Arya called, ignoring the slight glare Osha sent her for the title, “If you wouldn’t mind doing the honours.”

The man who passed the sentence should swing the sword, that was true, but that was to keep from complacency with doling out death. Her own Lord Father had allowed the delegation of lesser punishments, he had needed to, else he would have spent his time doing little else.

Osha grinned viciously and stalked towards Baelish with a kind of feline grace. The lord struggled in the hands of the guards, but their grip kept him from getting away.

Arya did not look away as Osha made the quick cut, not did she look away when the flat of a heated blade was pressed to the incision to stem the bleeding and the scent of burnt flash filled the room. She did not flinch at the agonised scream Littlefinger let out, nor at the sight of the splash of blood on the marble of the floor. It was what he deserved, even a quick glance at Jeyne was enough to confirm that.

Baelish collapsed to the floor without the guards holding him up and Arya moved until she was stood over him, looking down upon his prone form.

“Petyr Baelish, you stand accused of the attempted murder of Prince Rickon, you stand accused of the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn, you stand accused of treason. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”

Baelish shot her a hateful look, “Everything I’ve done, was to protect your sister. To safeguard her from harm. I protected her in Kings Landing!”

“That is a lie.” Sweet, brave Jeyne spoke up, “You claim you protected Sansa, but you were the one who betrayed Lord Stark to the Lannisters. You are as responsible for his death as Joffrey Baratheon.”

A roar of outrage went up among the lords, for those who were left were of an age to have known Eddard Stark as a boy when he was fostered in the Vale. To hear that the man before them had played a part in his death was not something they would take lightly.

“Do you have anything else to say to defend yourself Lord Baelish?” Arya offered, a grin crossing her face as he merely shook his head. “Then I find you guilty on all charges. In the name of Queen Sansa of House Stark, I Arya Stark, Princess of Winter sentence you to death. Take him to the courtyard, and someone bring me a sword.”

“You gave your word!” Baelish hissed at her as he was dragged to the courtyard, “You swore I wold not die.”

Arya smiled back, “I promised you would not fly. Not that you would not die. If you have any final words then I will hear them.”

Baelish glared at her, all his words dried up and useless in the face of the heavy sword she held, in the face of his inevitable death.

Arya was swift at removing his head, the thud of the blade and the arc of blood satisfying to her eye. The man who had tormented her sister, who had tried to kill her brother, who had tried to kill her and had nearly killed Gendry, the man who had had a hand in Father’s death, he was dead. His words wind, and her family now safe from his machinations.

“Have his head preserved and sent to Winterfell.” She ordered, “It will rest on a pike above the gates as a warning to those who would attempt treason.”

There was another reason to have the head sent to Winterfell, the sight of it would be reassuring to her sister. A sign that no more would he follow her footsteps with a lustful gaze.

Winter had come for Petyr Baelish and now he would serve as a warning for those who tried to threaten House Stark.


	2. Sansa

Far too few returned from the Wall. The losses so much more obvious, so much more personal at the sight of the diminished troops than they ever were as number on paper.

A selfish part of Sansa, a horrible little kernel in her chest that she desperately tried to smother could not help but be glad that her family was among those that returned, that they had lived when so many had died. An absent part of her mind, one just as horrible as the kernel, wondered just how many had died so her family could live.

She could not show the pain she felt at the losses incurred though, just as she could not show the joy she felt at her brother and uncles returning to her. She had to be ice, as serene as any Queen in the stories, and as strong as any knight.

They had sent out a hunt for fresh meat for the returning soldiers, had had the kitchens running for days to prepare food suitable to celebrate their victory and mourn the dead. Pies and porridges and stews, bread and cheeses and ale enough that all might join in with the celebrations.

Winterfell had been a hive of activity ensuring there were beds enough for everyone, Sansa herself had overseen the preparations of her family’s chambers.

Wintertown had been strung with streamers in bright colours, and boughs of evergreen to welcome them all home, and Sansa had ordered fresh banners to be displayed, banners for each of her bannermen and the Houses sworn to her rule. They fluttered in the gentle wind, creating a grand display of colours that brightened up the cold winter’s day.

The columns of returning men, although their faces were pinched from weariness and hunger, looked up at the bright colours and the deep green boughs and their faces filled with something like contentment and awe at the reminder of what exactly they had been fighting for.

Sansa herself stood outside of Winterfell, on the same platform that had been used to see the men off, her gown was one that evoked memories of spring with its embroidered snowdrops and colour the same green as pine needles, for it was not one meant to inspire loyalty but meant to remind everyone of the warmth that would be returning. Her hair was braided in the style that her mother had preferred, with her crown perched on top. To her side sat Bran in his chair, she had ensured that he was dressed in more elaborate clothes than he usually preferred, a doublet and breeches in the style their Uncle demure preferred, but in slate grey and forest green with embroidery that reminded the observer of feathers.

The only others to join them upon the platform were the direwolves, for to place anyone else up there would show a level of favouritism that would cause offense to be taken by at least one lord. Besides, although it was only the official greeting, a selfish part of Sansa did not want to have to share her family reunion with others more than necessity demanded.

Brynden rode at the head of the procession that stopped before her, Jon to his right and Edmure to his left, and all the other lords behind them. Their faces were clean, but their armour was scuffed and she could see that Edmure’s tabard had a rip in the hem that had yet to be fixed.

“Your Grace.” Brynden knelt before her, as did the rest of the lords.

Sansa stepped forwards and took his hand to pull him to his feet.

“Welcome home, and congratulations on your victory.” Sansa said, projecting her voice so it could be heard by all. “Tonight we will honour those who gave their lives to defend us all, just as we honour those who have returned victorious. A grand feast has been prepared to celebrate your victory, and the return of the dawn, but for now, my lords, my honoured people, beds and baths have been prepared so that you might rest.”

The column quickly devolved into a bustle of movement as men were shown to the long halls they could rest in, as the lords were shown by maids to the chambers that had been set aside for them. Sansa took hold of Jon’s hand in the confusion, just as Bran asked Brynden to push his chair, and led their family up to the family solar.

As soon as they were in the family solar both she and Bran found themselves wrapped up in strong arms as their family took it in turns to hug them close. Even Tormund left Jon’s side long enough to hug them.

She looked over them all with a critical eye, each of them was bruised and had a myriad of small cuts, Tormund leaned heavily to one side, one of Edmure’s arms was held strangely, and Jon’s face was pink as though burnt.

“Its good to see you both again sweetlings.” Brynden said, cradling first her face and then Bran’s in his hands and pressing a gentle kiss to each of their brows.

“Is it true Jon that your sword caught on fire!” Bran asked eagerly, “And that you killed the last of the Others?”

Jon looked very uncomfortable, “Its mostly true. My sword did catch fire, blue flames, but only after…”

Sansa knew what he did not say, had been told in a letter from Brynden just how Benjen had died. The flames would certainly explain the burns on Jon’s face though, if he was that close to the flames then it would be more surprising if he was not burnt.

“Have your burns been attended to? Are they painful?” She asked.

Jon all but rolled his eyes at her, “Yes, they were tended to as soon as the battle was over. I’m not that bad at accepting medical care.”

Tormund coughed a cough that somehow sounded disbelieving and Jon batted at him without looking.

“Can you set your sword on fire again?” Bran asked, as he leant forwards in his chair in an attempt to see Longclaw better.

Brynden cleared his throat and they all turned to looked at him, “Let’s not try and test that inside, thank you. The healers don’t need to be dealing with any stupidity induced injuries on top of the wounded from the battle.”

She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but Sansa was quite disappointed by his words. She had wanted to see the flaming sword just as much as Bran had.

* * *

“My lords, my ladies, honoured guests. Thanks to you all the dawn has come again and the undead are defeated! The battle was not without losses, and as we celebrate the return of the sun, so too do we remember those who gave their lives to defend us all.” Sansa raised her goblet in a toast, “To the Dawn!”

“To the Dawn!” Was chorused back and everyone drank deeply from their cups of wine, ale or mead.

The toast was a signal for everyone to tart feasting, and soon the hall was filled with the sound of laughter and conversation as people celebrated. It was not just the nobles included in the feast, but the captains of the troops, free folk, and prominent members of Wintertown. A second feast was being held as well, one for the rest of the troops, but it took place in the camp as opposed to the castle itself.

The food disappeared quickly, with many pleased to be able to fill their bellies after months of tightening their belts. It was a simple feast, compared to the ones that would undoubtedly be held in the Southern kingdoms and Kings Landing to celebrate the Dawn, but a welcome one all the same.

When most of the food was gone, and the mead flowed more freely, people began to move around the hall, sharing bonds that had been forged through battle and hardship in a setting where laughter ran freely. It was a part of Sansa’s duty to mingle with her people, but it was a duty that was far from a hardship to complete.

She did not have to greet any of the contenders for the Iron Throne, for they had chosen to celebrate apart, for which Sansa was thankful for as she had no wish to partake in politics at such a time. She did, however need to greet the lords and ladies of her kingdoms, which she did with an attempt to emulate her mother and father so as to ensure she got her greetings right.

When she gazed around the room she saw that her brother was leaning against his husband, his face flushed with drink as well as the pink of his burns. They were surrounded by an audience of Free Folk and Northern men, as well as Theon and Lady Asha, and they were all laughing and cheering at something that made Sansa want to see what was happening. She was not disappointed by the spectacle that awaited her.

“Drink!” Tormund said, pressing the horn into Jon’s hands.

Sansa grinned to see the apprehension on her brother’s face.

“If I drink that then I’ll vomit. And vomiting is not celebrating.” Jon said, he crossed his arms and looked up at his husband with a pout that was belied by the softness of his eyes.

“Yes it is!” Tormund insisted, he flung an arm over Sansa’s shoulders, “What do you think, little Queen?”

“I think Jon’s just scared.” She decided to take a page out of Arya’s book to needle him, “He doesn’t think he can so he won’t.”

To her side Theon snorted as Jon’s face took on the same determined expression it did when he was challenged on the training yard.

He snatched the horn out of Tormund’s hand and downed it, ale spilled out the sides and down onto his tunics, and when he was finished he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while he gasped for air.

“I’d like to see you try it Sansa.” He said, holding out the horn for her to take.

Sansa smiled at him innocently, “I would, but unfortunately, dear brother, Uncle Brynden and I decided this feast is too important for me to get drunk and make a fool of myself.”

Jon looked at her in disbelief, “At this moment I can’t quite recall why I missed you while I was away.”

Sansa smiled once more and swanned away from her brother to the sound of laughter from Tormund and Theon.

“What’s that smirk for sweetling?” Edmure asked, as he pulled her to his side. “Were you teasing your brother?”

“I was only using the advice you told me uncle.” Sansa replied, “I seem to remember you telling me it was my job as a younger sibling to tease my brother.”

Edmure threw back his head and laughed, louder than she had heard him since he had been released from the Freys.

“That I did, sweetling.” A Riverlands reel began to play and Edmure held his hand out to her, “Would you care to dance, dear niece?”

Sansa grinned and let him lead her onto the floor, she did so enjoy to dance and had always preferred the quick steps and turns of the Riverland dances her mother had taught her as opposed to the jumps and twists of the Northern dances or the courtly dances of Kings Landing.

The two of them spun around the floor with quite some speed, despite Sansa’s careful manoeuvring around her uncle’s injured arm, and they were soon joined by a myriad of other dancers. Sansa could spot among them Maege Mormont dancing with the Greatjon; Jonos Bracken dancing with Lady Dustin of all people; and Marq Piper attempting to show Tyene how to do the steps.

She danced a couple more dances with her uncle until the music changed to a song with a strong beat and that was filled with the sound of horns and pipes, a song that had the Ironborn in the room move onto the floor with expressions of what would be called delight had the word not felt wrong to use to describe people so heavily scarred and armed.

It was a rather incredible sight, Sansa had to admit, the Ironborn all moving in sync to the music with their movements deliberate and fast paced and done at exactly the same time. It was impressive, and of such precision that it was difficult to reconcile the savage reputation of the Ironborn with the dancers in front of them.

Sansa found her gaze drawn to the way that Lady Asha moved, she had a strange sort of grace with her movements, not the traditional sort that would be expected from a dance, but grace nonetheless. A hand on her elbow startled her out of her contemplation of the muscles that rippled beneath the white linen of Lady Asha’s blouse.

“My sister was always the best at this.” Theon said softly, almost wistfully.

Sansa turned to him, “Do you not wish to take part?”

Theon looked away, “I don’t remember how.” He admitted, “I haven’t danced it since lessons with my mother. It’s a dance that needs to be practiced often for it to work.”

For a moment Sansa felt a burst of hatred for the way her father had taken Theon from his home and culture, for the way that his culture and heritage and traditions had been denied him, so much so that he did not even know the dances of the people he had been supposed to rule over.

She did not say any of her thoughts however, did not give voice to her anger. Instead Sansa merely tilted her head towards him and smiled lightly.

“I seem to recall you were always the best when we had our dance lessons, would you like to show the southerners how its done?”

The hint of a smile played about his lips but he shook his head, “I am not so light on my feet as I once was, I fear I would be a poor choice if you wish to impress the soft southerners.”

“Nonsense.” Sansa scoffed, before her tone turned more serious, “Theon, if you truly do not wish to dance then I will not push you, but if you are only declining because you think you aren’t good enough may I remind you that Jon once managed to trip over his own foot and pulled his partner down with him and I have not forbidden him from dancing.”

The hint of a smile became a full smile and instead of answering her, Theon bowed and offered his hand to lead her to the floor as a new song began, this time in the Northern style.

The floor was soon full of dancers, as it seemed that every northerner took part in the dance, switching partners and weaving together and above all else grinning as it did not matter if a step was not correct, not when it was a dance designed for fun and keeping warm over perfection.

And as Sansa danced around she could almost forget the faces that were not there, and that soon enough there might be more empty spaces in their quest to keep their freedom from the iron Throne.

* * *

“There is a package for you, Your Grace. From the Vale.”

Sansa wondered what it was she had been sent, and for a moment the most horrible thoughts ran through her head, terror at the thought that it might be proof that her baby brother and sister were in danger or had been hurt.

She asked for Jon to be fetched and for the package to be brought to her, if it was bad news then they would face it together,

The package arrived at the same time as Jon, it was a plain wooden box, travel stained and heavy and surprisingly small, about the size Lady had been as a pup. She lifted the lid and was hit with the acrid scent of vinegar and the stench of pitch, there was something lumpy hidden beneath an oiled cloth and a letter on the top scribed in Arya’s scruffy handwriting.

_‘Sweet sister,_

_Enclosed is a gift for you, a token of what happens to traitors to the North. It is my fondest wish that you would display it somewhere prominent, perhaps the West Gate?_

_I must reassure you that we are all well, none of the traitor’s plans worked to harm us, although his plans did work to take Aunt Lysa from us far too soon as opposed to the illness we thought it was._

_I do have good news though, the traitor aided us in recovering one we thought loss, and you will be pleased to know that when it is safe to do so Jeyne Poole will be accompanying us home. She did not get through her ordeals unscathed, but is recovering well with help._

_Please pass on my love to our brothers and uncles, and tell Jon and Tormund that their girls are well and quite enjoying the chance to horrify some stuffy lords._

_Love_

_Arya.’_

There was a second note scribbled on the bottom, in childish handwriting that made both Sansa and Jon smile to see, as much as they had at the slightly cryptic letter from Arya.

_‘Sansa,_

_The Vale is really good. Shaggy and I like how tall the mountain is, and the floors are slippery and fun!_

_I don’t think Osha likes being so tall, she looks very worried a lot._

_Can we come home soon? I miss home._

_Rickon.’_

At least Rickon seemed like he was having a good time in the Vale, despite the ‘traitor’ that Arya’s letter spoke of. A mention that gave Sansa some idea of what was within the box.

Gingerly Sansa lifted the cloth in the box and nearly shrieked when she saw what was within, even Jon, who had seen more than his fair share of gore recently, stepped back with a curse. For within the box, although distorted by its journey and the preservation process, it was unmistakeably the head of Petyr Baelish.

“Well that’s not fair.” Jon muttered, causing Sansa to look at him incredulously.

“What isn’t fair?”

Jon raised his hands defensively, and in a slightly petulant voice said “I wanted to be the one to kill him.”

Laughter bubbled up in Sansa’s chest at his words, she patted him on the arm in a deliberately condescending move and smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, you can kill the next person who tries to kill our family.”

Jon pouted at her, he looked like he had been denied the last lemon cake rather than his little sister denying him the chance to execute a man.

Sansa looked at the head again, and contemplated what to do with it.

“I do like Arya’s suggestion, but I think I might put it above the South gate instead, Baelish can keep Roose Bolton company.”


	3. Brynden

It was astonishing really, how many of the lords had survived the Long Night. How much of Sansa’s council had survived, more for sure than the southern courts for they had been better prepared for the cold.

They had little less than a moons turn before the truce was over, before Westeros would be at war again over the Iron Throne. There was no chance that the Lannisters would just let Sansa claim sovereignty over her kingdoms, just as there was no chance that Stannis Baratheon and Aegon Targaryen would be content to let the throne remain in Lannister hands.

The map before them looked bleak, they had estimated troop numbers the best they could, had worked out the routes of attack that the Lannisters might well use and Brynden had found himself missing the decisive and original plans that Robb had used.

His niece was too unsure about warfare to be able to make the type of decisions her brother had, and the other lords all had conflicting opinions on where was necessary to defend and where was a good place to attack.

“Ser Garlan, perhaps you could enlighten us as to your brother’s plans for the rest of your armies? Are they to remain in Kings Landing or will they join the Lannister armies in the field?” Brynden asked, he hoped it was the first option for it should allow them to take the city with little bloodshed.

Ser Garlan looked at the map and gestured to a place along the Rose Road.

“The last I heard, my grandmother had been sent back to Highgarden along with a company of five hundred men, ostensibly to safeguard her from attacks by her ‘power hungry grandson’; that is myself. Their official line is that I am aiding you in the hope of being rewarded with my father’s seat should you take power. If you send a small number of men to her then she will be able to pass on the information she holds on the updated defences of the city and the number of men the Lannisters hold. As far as I am aware, the Tyrell armies are under orders to take control of the Red Keep as soon as your armies breach the city gates.”

Brynden nodded, that was good news at the least, to besiege the city would be easier if they had relatively up to date news on its defences. It was even better news, that the Tyrell forces would turn upon the Lannisters once the city walls were breached, for it would hopefully reduce the bloodshed spilt in the streets of the city.

“That is good.” Sansa nodded as she looked at the map, “And I am pleased Lady Olenna is out of harm’s way.”

Ser Garlan looked pleased by her words, and he bowed his head in thanks.

Oberyn bent over the map and looked concerned however, “That is all well and good, but what about Wildfire? The Imp cannot have used it all in the Battle of the Blackwater and we could very well be leading our people into a trap that kills civilians as well.”

“That’s to say nothing of Tywin Lannister using our distraction over Kings Landing to invade the Riverlands again.” Edmure frowned. “We cannot fight a war on two fronts, not when we are still weary from the War for the Dawn. Three fronts possibly if Baratheon and Targaryen are unable to come to a truce.”

They did make good points, and discussions broke out among the lords as to what was to be done.

“Why not just take the Iron Throne and cut out the Targaryen and Baratheons?” One lord piped up, his words causing silence to fall as everyone looked to see what Sansa’s reaction would be.

“We are pledged to support King Stannis claim the Iron Throne, as per our alliance.” Sansa said, putting her hands down on the table and glaring at the Vale lord who had made such a suggestion, “I will not have the Stark name, a name which has stood for honour and honesty for millennia, degraded by breaking our oath now.”

The lord stepped back as the Northern and Riverlands lords glared at him as well, none of them would take such an insinuation kindly, not when they had bled for the Starks long before the Vale had got involved in the war.

“I meant no offence, Your Grace.” The lord swallowed heavily, “I just do not see why you would not wish to sit upon the Iron Throne yourself.”

“Because, my lord, my sister has no desire to sit upon that Throne.” Jon interjected, glaring at the Vale lord, “And our aim is to keep our home separate from Kings Landing, something that would be impossible should our Queen be sat upon that infernal throne.”

Muttering broke out among the assembled lords, the majority of it agreeing with Jon’s words. Brynden resisted the urge to sigh with relief at that, he knew the lure of the Iron Throne would be great for some, and the thought of his sweet niece anywhere near that monstrosity of a chair was enough to induce a stress related headache.

“Do we know what Targaryen has planned?” Brynden asked, intent on changing the subject away from any of his family on the Iron Throne.

“I know he was thinking of having a parlay with Baratheon.” Jon offered, “During a conversation he realised he did not know the people he wished to rule over well enough to be a good monarch. Besides that, I believe he may be persuaded into allowing us to keep our independence should he choose to take the Iron throne for himself.”

An absent part of Brynden’s mind wondered whether the conversation he and Oberyn had held with Lord Connington had had an impact on that decision, whether it had helped the lord to realise that the political landscape he was instructing his charge on was greatly changed since he had last set foot in Westeros. He knew as well that Jon had talked with his half-brother, to try and explain why he did not truly have much of a claim to the Seven Kingdoms according to their laws, and it seemed like that might have garnered some impact in Targaryen’s thoughts.

“We should invite Stannis Baratheon and Aegon Targaryen here, for neutral ground for their negotiations to take place, and a place where, if both accept guest right, where they will be unable to kill one another if discussions go poorly.” Sansa suggested, in a move Brynden greatly approved of.

“Aye, that would work.” He agreed, “We can finalise the terms of our treaties with them as well when they are here.”

It was as though his words were a dismissal, for the lords began to mutter among themselves of things other than the war yet to come.

“I do have other news.” Sansa announced, just as the lord looked like they were about to get up to leave the meeting, “Petyr Baelish is dead, executed for the murder of Lady Lysa Arryn, and the attempted murders of Prince Rickon and Princess Arya. His head is to be placed above the southern gate.”

Brynden knew this already, had seen Baelish’s head in the box Arya had sent it in, and yet he still felt some trepidation at the wolfish smile on Sansa’s face as she made the announcement. It was easy sometimes, with her gowns and courtesies and youth, to forget that she was just as much a wolf as the rest of her siblings.

Had he not been so incensed by the knowledge that Baelish had been responsible for his niece’s death, and for planning the deaths of Arya and Rickon, he would have almost found himself pitying Littlefinger for having underestimating the Starks so much, an underestimation that had cost him his life.

* * *

“I will not be here forever, dear heart.” Oberyn said as he caressed Brynden’s face.

Brynden sighed, he knew that Oberyn would not remain with him for long, that the moons they had had together was longer than was usual for Oberyn, but the thought of not seeing him regularly did hurt.

“I know that. You will come visit though, you and Ellaria when you travel to visit your daughters. I know Sansa will miss having Ellaria around as much as I will miss your presence.”

Oberyn smiled at him, “Of course we will, I know Ellaria wishes to introduce Elia to your niece, and she cares for the little queen as though she is her own daughter. We will visit with regularity if my dear Ellaria has her way.”

That was reassuring, and not just for Brynden, he knew that Sansa, and to some extent Arya, saw Ellaria as a mother figure and to lose her would hurt them.

Brynden curled a hand around the back of Oberyn’s neck and pulled him into a deep kiss. If he was to be bereft of his lover then he would enjoy the time he had with him, and perhaps it would work as an incentive for Oberyn to return quickly.

Oberyn kissed him back, and Brynden could feel the smile on his face.

“You should not waste away up here alone though,” Oberyn purred, “You should find some big strong Northerner or Free Folk man to warm your bed while I cannot. I’m sure your nephew’s husband could help you to choose.”

Brynden pulled back enough that Oberyn could see his raised eyebrow, “I am not asking my good-nephew for a recommendation on who to fuck.”

Oberyn pulled him close again, and against his lips huffed out a laugh, “No? Then what about a pretty southerner if you have no desire for a rugged Northman? I’m sure Lord Connington would happily grace your bed again if you wished it, or perhaps our sweet Willas will brave the cold for a visit.”

“I would never ask Willas to make such a journey, not when it would put such strain on his knee. And as for Lord Connington, he still fancies himself in love with Rhaegar Targaryen and I would rather not be a place holder.” Brynden huffed back, before pulling Oberyn into another punishing kiss.

“No?” Oberyn’s tone turned wicked, “Then what about Ser Jaime? He watches you with something more than awe and you must admit he is rather pretty.”

Brynden actually growled at those words, and he was not gentle as he manoeuvred Oberyn over to the bed. He pushed him into the furs and bit at his lips in an attempt at vengeance for putting that image in his head.

“You are a complete shit.”

Oberyn laughed at his words and pushed his hands up under Brynden’s shirt until they were against his skin.

“I might be a shit, but for now, I am your complete shit, dear heart.”

Brynden growled again, and allowed his fingers to trail under Oberyn’s shirt and over the skin that always seemed to run warmer than his own.

He was going to savour having Oberyn around for as long as he was, and if he could make Oberyn forget their conversation, well that was all the better.

* * *

Brynden watched as his nephew practiced at the archery butts, he could recall how Cat had been despairing of her son’s ability to be able to take part in such an activity and he longed for her to be able to see Bran as he did at that moment. The lad was not the best archer, but then, no one expected him to be for he had not been learning long.

Not with the new grip and stance anyway.

He waited until Bran had used up his quiversful of arrows and was reaching for a second before moving over to him.

“You did good lad.” He said, placing a hand on his nephew’s shoulder.

Bran beamed up at him, “Really? I know I’m not very good yet, but I am improving.”

Brynden smiled back, “You’re already better than your Uncle Edmure was at your age. He never really had the patience for the bow, not as you do.”

His nephew looked so very pleased with that praise that Brynden could not stop himself from ruffling the boy’s curls.

“I want to be better than Arya when she gets back.” Bran confided, “She used to be better than me by loads, and I want to beat her for once.”

Those words were recognisable, Brynden himself had sad something of the sort about Hoster once or twice while they were growing up. And it was not an unachievable goal, especially since Brynden knew Arya had been more focused on practicing with a sword than a bow in recent months.

“Well I am sure we can manage that. And if you get good enough, you can help show Rickon how to shoot.” He encouraged, “It will be time for him to start learning soon enough.”

And wasn’t that a scary though? Baby Rickon being old enough to wield a bow, it was the good kind of scary though, especially when it had not been long since Brynden had thought both boys to be dead and burned.

He reached for the second quiver and held it out, “I can stay and help if you would like? I am unfamiliar with the grip, but I can likely help with your aim.”

Bran beamed at him once more, “I would like that. I would like that very much.”

Brynden smiled back and began to help his nephew with his technique. It was nice to be teaching again, he had grown weary of the bloodshed and spending time with the children n his care was soothing in a way little else was.


	4. Jon

Jon’s eyes shot open and he sat up in bed panting as harshly as if he had just run a mile. All he could see was the pained, grey eyes of his uncle as his sword slipped through his heart, the love that those eyes contained that he didn’t deserve.

All he could hear was the terrible screech as the crowned Other died, a sword lit with the flames of Benjen’s death thrust through his heart.

He startled when a gentle hand rested itself on his back and began to rub, and he was pulled into a broad and warm chest. As his hearing filtered back in he could hear the platitudes that Tormund offered him, words of comfort and reminders of where they were.

A sob burst out of his chest, at the memories and the comfort he felt he did not deserve. He was a kin-slayer, someone cursed by the Old Gods and the New, what right did he have to any comfort?

He must have spoken his thoughts out loud without meaning to because Tormund gave him a look that was so very sad, and his hand moved to stroke Jon’s curls even as he pressed Jon tighter against his chest.

“Don’t say such thing sweet boy.” Tormund said in a voice as if he was going to cry, “You are no kin-slayer, your uncle was already dead when he stepped in front of your blade. No god will curse you for that, not when the Other you slew meant the Dawn returned to us.”

Jon sobbed again at his words, and against his will found tears began to leak out of his eyes. He brought his hands up and clutched at the fabric of Tormund’s shirt, he gripped to it like it was the last thing anchoring him place, like if he let go then Tormund would disappear.

Tormund just let him cry, he offered soothing words and gentle caresses of his hair and back but he did not try and quiet him.

When his tears and sobs finally stopped he leaned back so he could look up at Tormund with puffy, red eyes, the expression of love on Tormund’s face made him want to cry again.

“Come here, sweet boy.” Tormund crooned, manoeuvring Jon so that he lay curled up against his chest, Tormund’s knees tucked up below his own.

Jon felt so very safe and small, tucked up like that, surrounded by Tormund. Slowly he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep, Tormund’s hands never ceasing their gentle stokes of his back and hair.

* * *

It was a relief when the banners denoting the return of Arya and Rickon were spotted on the horizon, the whole castle had been on edge for days waiting for their return.

Jon was anxious to see his siblings, since the box had come containing Baelish’s head he’d been concerned, for it had meant they were not as safe as he had thought they would be. Tormund too had been anxious to see his daughters, although it was to be a bittersweet reunion as the girls did not yet know of their mother’s death, for Tormund had wanted to tell them himself rather than entrust it to a raven.

Sansa had decided that they did not need a high level of pomp, not when everyone was still so tired and when it was likely that Rickon would be taken straight up to bed anyway.

It was only really the family of those returning that gathered in the courtyard, the Mormonts, Ygritte, and of course Jon and his family.

Sansa was the one to officially greet them all, but it was a short greeting and soon enough she held Rickon in her arms and Jon had Arya jump on him with a great hug that nearly knocked him over. Jon took a moment to reassure himself that she was safe and whole, and he noticed that Sansa was doing the same to Rickon.

He made to go and swap siblings with her when Tormund’ voice rang out.

“Where are my little bear cubs?” Tormund had called almost as soon as the official welcome was done, and two fur wrapped girls rushed at him.

He swept the girls up in his arms and perched one on each shoulder so that they towered above the rest of the courtyard. He caught Jon’s eye and nodded; his eyes serious despite the grin on his face.

Jon gently pushed Arya towards Brynden and made to follow Tormund into the castle, he could have a proper catch up with his siblings later that day and he knew that Tormund would appreciate his support as he told the girls of their mother’s death.

He nodded at Sansa as he left and she inclined her head in response, that was good, she would keep Arya and Rickon occupied until the girls had had enough time to process the news.

Tormund looked at him questioningly as he caught up, and Jon led them, not to the family solar, but to the small one that belonged to him and Tormund. It would be not only private, but comfortable as well.

“Do you want me in here?” Jon asked Tormund quietly, and his husband nodded.

He sat down on one of the overstuffed chairs and called the girls to sit on his knee, while Jon perched on the arm in a move that would have made his father tut with disappointment.

“Girls,” Tormund began heavily, his earlier joviality gone, “I, I, it’s yer mother.”

Torva’s face fell as she began to realise why Karsi had not been there to greet them in the courtyard. Munda did not however, she just looked at her father with a trusting gaze, sure that whatever news he had would not be bad.

Jon wondered if that was how Bran and Rickon had looked when news of father’s death made it to Winterfell.

“Is mama ok?” Munda asked innocently, “Where is she?”

“Yer mama is gone sweetling,” Tormund said gently, “She fell with a spear in her hand, knowing that she was defending the two of you.”

Both girls’ faces screwed up in sorrow as tears began to fill their eyes and drip down their cheeks at the news.

“Mama’s gone?” Torva asked, her voice choked with tears.

Tormund shot Jon a desperate look and Jon moved to gather the girl up in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, sweet girl.” He said, bouncing her softly on his hip and letting her curl her little hands into his clothes, “Your mama was so brave and she loved you so very much.”

He could see Tormund doing the same with Munda, but he paid no real attention to it. He was far to focused on making sure the child in his arms was comforted and allowed to express her pain.

Once she had calmed down a little Torva tugged on his hair to gain Jon’s full attention.

“Jon, what’s going to happen to us now?” Torva asked quietly, worrying at her mouth, “Now mama isn’t looking after us?”

There was no question as to what the answer would be, no hesitation at all.

“You are going to stay with your papa, sweetling, and me as well. Your papa and I have a whole castle for you and your sister to run around in, and you can spend time with Rickon, and we’ll go Beyond the Wall as well and when your all grown up you can choose where you want to be.”

He caught Tormund’s eyes as he finished speaking, and the love that was contained within them nearly knocked him off his feet. There was a glorious sort of tenderness on Tormund’s face as he saw Jon with Torva cradled in his arms, a tenderness that made Jon’s heart flutter, made him want to spend a lazy morning just trading sweet kisses with his husband.

He could not though, not when he held a child in his arms that needed to be soothed from the pain of losing their mother.

* * *

“Jon, I need your advice on something.” Sansa said, as he entered her office.

Jon sat in the chair opposite her desk, “Of course, what was it you needed?”

“The Nights Watch is now, to all intents and purposes, defunct. With the Free Folk currently below the Wall, and our treaties with them the Watch is not needed to prevent raiding, and their original purpose has now been fulfilled.” Sansa stated with little inflection in her voice.

Jon could not deny her words, not matter how much they hurt. Some part of him would always belong to the Watch, to the vows he had taken and that his sister had released him from. He knew that had Robb and Father not been killed, had he not come across his brothers in that mill, he would still be a part of the Watch.

“I see.” He said, “What sort of idea have you been thinking of? You can’t just disband the Watch, not when many were sent there as a punishment.”

“Poachers and thieves, those I could likely give a pardon to, but the rapists and murderers? Those I cannot.” Sansa said thoughtfully, “The men of the Watch, they will receive a choice, they can stay on, serving at the Wall and running the trade stations I hope to set up between our people and the Free Folk, or they can receive a pardon and make their own way. Of course, that choice will only apply to those who chose to take the black or committed a minor crime.”

Jon nodded slowly, it likely would work, some would take the pardon while others would stay on somewhere where there was always a hot meal and a bed for them.

“Aye, that could work. Will you bring them under your jurisdiction or allow them to remain apart from politics?”

Sansa sighed, “I would love to not have to worry about them, to let them govern themselves, but I am concerned that if we did so then hostilities with the Free Folk would begin again.”

That was definitely a problem, but so was the fact that if Sansa took control of the Watch so they would lose the recruits sent by the Southern Kingdoms, recruits that the Watch relied on to survive.

He didn’t expect the soft curse that Sansa let out when he voiced his thoughts, although perhaps he should have considering how deep the bags beneath her eyes were and the general aura of exhaustion she showed. She must have been tired and stressed from dealing with all the lords in Winterfell and all the people wanting answers over their next moves.

He rounded the desk and pulled her into a hug, “You don’t have to decide all of this now, why don’t we gather up Bran and Arya and Rickon and go to the hot springs? You can use a break from this, and when you get back it might all sort itself out.”

Sansa nodded against his shoulder, “That sounds nice.”

“Why don’t you go and get our swimming things then, and I’ll see if I can gather the others. Would you like me to invite Theon along as well?”

Sansa nodded again and Jon pulled back so he could see her face. He smiled softly at her and gently brushed a curl behind her ear.

When they separated properly he gentle pushed her out the room so she could not fall back into work, and when he was assured she wouldn’t return he set off to find their myriad of siblings.

Arya was easy to track down. She took great joy in being back in Winterfell, in the open-air training yards, almost as much joy as she took at being able to needle the Kingslayer again while training. Jon would never understand the strange friendship his baby sister had with Lannister, but he was pretty sure it was harmless. Mostly harmless anyway.

He watched with a grin as she launched herself into a flying leap that ended with her hanging around Brienne’s neck. Both of them were covered in mud, and it looked like their training session had devolved into a wrestling match.

He pinched his nose before walking over to them and made sure his face held an exaggerated expression of disgust, “As entertaining as your actions are sweet sister, you stink.”

Arya let go of Brienne and dropped to the floor, landing as lithely as a cat. Barely a moment passed before she charged at him with a war cry, vicious and crude enough that Jon was sure one of the Free Folk had taught it to her.

Jon let her run at him, let her think she would be able to bring him down, until the last moment when he grabbed her and swung her up so she lay over his shoulder. Arya writhed and kicked, but he knew that it was mostly for show for if she really wanted to get down then she would.

“Its off to the baths with you.” He said jovially, “Well, I was coming to see if you wanted to go to the springs anyway, but now you don’t have a choice little sister.”

She hissed and spat and made a great show of being displeased, but she remained over his shoulder and allowed him to carry her as he went hunting for the others.

The archery butts were usually a good place to look for Theon, well or his chambers, or sometimes on a really bad day the kennels. From the steady thud of arrows against the butts though, it seemed like this was a good day.

The look of confusion of Theon and Bran’s faces when Jon entered the small courtyard for archery practice was one that Jon wold likely treasure. He supposed it was a rather confusing image, a mud splattered Arya slung over his shoulder.

“We’re meeting Sansa at the springs, want to join us?” He asked cheerfully.

“Is there a reason Arya is over your shoulder?” Bran asked suspiciously.

“I’m going to use her to lull Rickon into a sense of false security.”

Theon snorted at that as he moved around packing up the equipment he and Bran had been using, a sight which Jon inferred to mean that they would be joining them in the springs.

“And how exactly are you planning on getting the little prince into something that might be considered a bath?” Theon asked.

“I’m not.” Jon replied primly, “You are.”

“I am not. Someone decided to teach your baby brother to bite people and I already have enough scars, I don’t need to add a child’s bite mark to those.” Theon sounded indignant at the very thought.

Jon turned to Bran who held his hands up.

“Oh no. Rickon is tricky, the moment he saw me coming he’d run to somewhere my chair can’t reach.” Bran said innocently, “And I don’t want to be bitten either.”

Arya slapped him on the back, “If you let me down then I’ll get him for you.”

Jon did consider it, but he also knew that if he did let Arya down then she would run off and he would have to spend at least an hour looking for her.

“No way, you’ll just hide with him until we give up. I’m not stupid Arya, I don’t fall for that.”

He could feel the force of her pout and he had to consider his options. He could take Arya with him and hope she wouldn’t hinder him or…

“Theon, hold out your arms.” Jon ordered, and despite giving him a bemused look Theon did so.

Jon dropped Arya into Theon’s arms, and told them to go on ahead to the springs, that it was likely Sansa was already there. He would find Rickon himself and bring him along, he didn’t really believe Rickon would bite him, he was sure the others were just using it as an excuse.

He followed the sound of laughter and destruction to find Rickon, they had all been a little more lenient on him since he had come home and he had taken full advantage of not being forced into lessons.

“Rickon!” He called, hoping to coax his baby brother out.

He could hear his brother’s footsteps before he saw him and he braced himself to pull the same move on Rickon as he had on Arya.

It was definitely someone from the Free Folk who had taught Rickon the battle cry he yelled, for everyone else was too scared of incurring the wrath of the ghost of Lady Catelyn to have dared teach him such language.

He put his arms out and swept his baby brother up so that he lay across his shoulders like a hunter carried a deer.

Jon felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and when he turned his head, he realised he shouldn’t have been as surprised at the sight of Rickon chomping down on him as he was. Both Theon and Bran had warned him after all.

“If you bite me again I will make sure that all of your lessons take place indoors for the next two weeks.” Jon threatened, and Rickon fell limp in his arms.

He knew he didn’t have long before Rickon tried to escape again and all but sprinted to the springs, barely even nodding at the people who greeted him as he went.

There was a look of delighted shock on his other sibling’s faces as he burst into the room that contained the springs, Rickon writhing and spitting on his shoulders like an angry cat. It must have been quite the sight for it did not take long for them to start laughing at him.

“Remember what I said about biting.” Jon warned as he put Rickon down.

Rickon blew a raspberry at him in response and scampered over to Sansa, eager to get in the water and play now that he was in the warmth and steam of the room. Jon still barred the door though, just to be sure that he wouldn’t try and run off outside in naught but a swim tunic.

He let his sister wrestle Rickon into the appropriate attire for the springs while he ducked behind the partition to change himself. Their swim tunics were some of the only pieces of linen in Winterfell, the cloth normally being far too thin to be sensible to wear in the cold.

By the time he had emerged his siblings were all in the water, even Rickon was quite happily splashing and paddling about.

Jon slipped into the water by Sansa and Theon and enjoyed the way the heat instantly soaked through to his bones. There was nothing that warmed quite so well as hot water, and little that warmed his spirits quite as much as the springs with all their good memories attached.

“Jon, you’re bleeding.” Sansa said, gently touching his shoulder.

Theon leaned round to see what she meant and let out a bark of laughter that sounded almost like the old Theon.

“So you did get bitten then by the little wolf?”

Jon scowled at him and Sansa gasped in shock.

“Rickon did this to you?”

Jon sighed, “Aye, he bit me. Seemed like he didn’t like being thrown over my shoulder.”

Sansa whacked him, none too gently, just below the bite mark, “I’m not surprised, how would you have reacted if someone had just thrown you over their shoulder?”

Theon did not even give him the chance to reply, “He might quite like that, if it was the right person maybe.”

Jon did not even hesitate, he launched himself at Theon, the way he had when they were Bran’s age, and attempted to wrestle him into the water. For all that Theon was still weak, he gave a good fight, using his height as an advantage and soon they had splashed water everywhere.

His siblings did not hesitate to take sides, and Jon was unsurprised when Rickon chose to support Theon, likely his baby brother would bear a grudge against him for a while longer.

The room filled with laughter and for a few moments it was like they had never left Winterfell, had never experienced loss or pain. For a few moments, no sorrow could touch them.


	5. Sansa

It had been hard to see Jeyne in the courtyard and be unable to greet her as she wanted. Sansa had desired little more than to rush over and gather her friend in her arms,

But she couldn’t do such a thing, couldn’t display such weakness, not in front of the lords who were still slight wary of her being a girl. She had to greet her siblings and the lords who had travelled with them first, had to be steel instead of porcelain.

As soon as they were in the family solar though, she and Jeyne collapsed into each other and both began to cry.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered into Jeyne’s shoulder, “So, so sorry.”

Jeyne sobbed into Sansa’s own shoulder in turn and her arms tightened around her, “You couldn’t have done anything. You didn’t know.”

Her friend was far too thin in her arms, birdlike and trembling and so very delicate, and Sansa’s heart filled with hatred for all those who had hurt her.

“No one will hurt you again.” She vowed softly, leaning back so she could look directly into Jeyne’s eyes, “Not as long as I hold power, no man shall lay his hands on you unless you invite them to.”

Jeyne shuddered and started to cry even harder; great heaving sobs that seemed almost relieved.

They clung to each other, neither willing to let the other go for fear that they might be parted again. And if Sansa had her way they would not be, not unless they wanted it.

Small arms wrapped around them both as Rickon joined in their hug, and then so did Arya and Bran until they were all wrapped up together in a hug that would never have happened before they all left Winterfell.

They had to separate though, no matter how comforting the hug was. But they all remained close together, Brynden, Theon and Edmure in the room, but not intruding on their reunion.

“I did like your gift Arya.” Bran said with a grin on his face, “It does look very good over the gate.”

Rickon began to giggle, bright peals that rang around the room, and clapped his hands together. “Arya was very brave! She looked after all of us, and, don’t tell him I said so, but Robin cried when she left!”

An adoring look crossed both of their uncles’ faces, and Sansa could feel the same on her own, even as a grumpy expression formed on Arya’s.

“Robin and I are just friends, that’s all.” Arya pouted, looking even more like Jon than normal, “We aren’t in love or anything, don’t listen to Rickon.”

Jeyne tugged lightly on Sansa’s sleeve, the way they had as children when they wanted to trade gossip.

“She says that, but there is definitely fondness between them. She was just as sad to be leaving as he was to see her go.” Jeyne breathed into her ear. “And her wolf was equally as sad to be leaving.”

Sansa stifled her grin at those words, if Arya hadn’t accepted that she had feelings yet then teasing her would only make her bury them deeper. She caught Theon’s eye and he smirked at her, either he had heard what Jeyne had said or had thought that Arya was protesting a little too much for her words to be true.

“Sansa,” Rickon tugged sharply on her skirt, “Where’s Jon?”

Sansa leaned down and picked him up, he had grown while in the Vale and was heavier in her arms than she remembered but still not too heavy for her to carry.

“Jon’s gone with Torva and Munda sweetling, Tormund wanted his support when he told the girls that their mama died in the battle.”

“Karsi died?” Rickon sounded so very sad, and Sansa had forgotten that he had known her.

“She did, sweetling, so Munda and Torva are going to be very sad for a while so you need to be gentle when playing, alright?”

Rickon tightened his arms around her and nodded into her neck, his little fingers digging into the fabric of her gown.

“Alright.” He mumbled, and then raised his head to look Sansa in the eye, “If Munda and Torva no longer have a mama, and Jon is married to their papa, does that make Jon their new mama?”

It was a struggle to contain the giggles that wanted to escape at that question. She understood Rickon’s logic, in a convoluted way it did make sense, but that did not stop it being funny.

Arya and Bran and Jeyne were not so successful with keeping their giggles contained, and Theon actually snorted in amusement at the image Rickon’s words created in his mind.

“Rickon, Jon is not Torva and Munda’s new mama. Not unless they decide he is, and it would be rude to ask them otherwise, because it might hurt their feelings.” Edmure explained, taking Rickon from her arms.

“Oh.” Rickon gained a thoughtful look on his face, “If Jon does become their new parent though, would that make us their aunts and uncles? Because if so I’m going to be the best uncle ever.”

Mock outrage crossed Edmure’s face at those words and he twisted Rickon so that he was dangling him by his ankles instead of holding him in his arms.

“How dare you good ser! I’ll have you know the position of ‘best uncle’ is already taken.”

There was only one answer to that, and it was just a race to see who would say it first. A race Arya won with ease.

“Yeah, by Uncle Brynden!”

* * *

They had the very beginnings of a plan on how to deal with the Lannisters, but they needed information on them, on the way their armies were structured and the power vacuums that would come into play should certain key players disappear. And unfortunately there was only one person they could ask for that information.

“Ser Jaime, if what Lady Brienne says is true, perhaps you would be willing to help us reduce the impact the war coming will have on the innocents on Kings Landing.”

Lannister looked at her with a raised eyebrow, “And what can I possibly do while stuck here? Any message that I sent would be dismissed as a trap.”

Sansa dismissed his casual tone, “We need to know how the Lannister army is structured, what would happen should your father die or be unable to command? Who would take charge then?”

The Kingslayer dropped his gaze and answered with a pained tone, “Ser Addam Marbrand on the field, my uncle Kevan otherwise.”

That was useful indeed, and Sansa could recall what people in Kings Landing had said of Ser Addam, of his friendship with Ser Jaime and that he was a keen strategist. They could plan around him, especially when it was his liege lord who was in danger if their plan went well, he would be far more likely to do as they wished than the notoriously stubborn Kevan Lannister.

“Your Grace,” Ser Jaime sounded hesitant, “Do, do you know yet whether Myrcella is going to remain in Dorne or not yet?”

A small smile crossed Sansa’s face, “From what I have heard, Prince Trystane is quite taken with Myrcella, the two have become quite good friends. Prince Doran values his son’s happiness and as far as I know he is willing to allow the betrothal to remain, provided Myrcella is legitimised as a Lannister of the Rock.”

She was unsure whether that was the answer that Ser Jaime wanted, whether he was pleased his daughter was still in Dorne or whether he would rather she joined Tommen in being fostered at Winterfell as their agreement demanded.

“Thank you,” He said softly, “Might I beg your permission, Queen Sansa, to send a raven to Tarth? I would like to ask Lord Selwyn for permission to court Lady Brienne as she deserves.”

The romantic that still lived in Sansa jumped for joy at those words, she had been waiting for such a request for a while now, and it seemed like their separation had proved the old adage true: absence really did make the heart grow fonder. She did not display this joy however, only allowed the light in her eyes to display how she felt about it.

“You may. However I would insist that myself or my uncle looks over any letter before you send it, I’m sure you understand why.”

Ser Jaime nodded and gave her a stiff smile, it was evident he did not like the idea but he would submit to it. He didn’t have a choice about it, not if he wanted to court Lady Brienne properly.

“And Ser Jaime?” Sansa called as he was leaving the room, “If I hear any complaints from Lady Brienne about your behaviour then you will lose your other hand.”

* * *

“Your Grace.” A thin man, tanned as though he had spent a long time in the sun, and bundled up in furs and yet still shivering stood before her desk. “I have returned from Essos as you instructed, and I bring news of both Tyrion Lannister and the Dragon Queen.”

Sansa held up a hand to stop him from speaking any more, “I thank you, but if you would wait one moment so that I might call for my Hand to attend as this information is important for us to both hear.”

It did not take her uncle long to arrive after a maid was sent to collect him, the studies they used were not far apart and he knew she wouldn’t call for him unless it was necessary.

“Your Grace.” He nodded as he entered the room to stand next to her chair.

“Uncle.” Sansa greeted back, she then leant forwards to the man, “Now, tell us exactly what is going on in Essos and why you did not bring the Imp back as instructed.”

The man swallowed nervously and looked at his hands before starting to speak, “Lord Tyrion has pledged himself to the service of the Dragon Queen, Your Grace, it would have been a death sentence to approach him with any mention of the Starks. The Dragon Queen has three dragons and control of the Unsullied armies, and she has taken control of the cities of Slaver’s Bay.”

Sansa exchanged a glance with Brynden, she did not know who the ‘Unsullied’ were but the thought of three dragons was nightmare inducing.

“Do you know if she has plans for Westeros?” Brynden asked, in a tone harsh enough that the man jumped.

“Yes milord. The Dragon Queen is building an army, says she wants to take back her rightful throne.” The man stammered, “She’s just waiting for her fleet to be rebuilt, and, and I heard rumours that she was thinking of allying with the Greyjoys.”

Well that was worrying, she would have to talk with Lady Asha about that, for while it would be useful in her attempt to retake the Islands, if the Dragon Queen landed in Westeros they would have greater problems.

“Is she a good ruler?” Sansa asked bluntly, “Does she care about her people? Or does she just see them as a means to an end?”

They had allied with Stannis Baratheon, but if Daenerys Targaryen actually cared for the people she wanted to rule perhaps she would be willing to negotiate to prevent bloodshed. If she cared for the smallfolk then she would not want a war and they could use that to prevent the destruction three dragons would cause.

The man shook before them, “You Grace, she, she, she does not care for her subjects.” Was his voice any quieter he would be whispering, “Her dragons killed and ate children and she reacted little, save only to lock up the two that had done nothing. She claimed to come to free the slaves, yet when the famine she caused made people wished to sell themselves back into slavery so that they might eat she demanded a cut of the transaction.”

That was not good news at all, if the dragons were so out of control that they would eat children then it did not indicate that the queen cared for her people.

“And what of her advisors? Do you know if they are true advisors, or are they using her for power?” Brynden cut in, a question Sansa knew was close to his heart for he had been accused of using her as a puppet in an attempt to gain power.

“I do not know of all her advisors, but other than Lord Tyrion, she has one they call ‘The Andal’, but I overheard them speak, Your Grace, she is advised by Jorah Mormont who escaped his execution.” The man paused and lowered his eyes, “Until recently she was also advised by Ser Barristan Selmy, but he was killed shortly before I left.”

Sansa closed her eyes and sent a prayer up for Ser Barristan, he had been kind to her when they had met and had tried to speak in her father’s defence before he was dismissed from the Kingsguard. It was a blow he was dead, for of all Daenerys Targaryen’s advisors he had the most experience dealing with the whims of kings.

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention.” Sansa dismissed the man, “Be welcome in Winterfell and Wintertown for as long as you wish, and if you follow my uncle, he shall pass on the payment you were promised. You might be called upon soon to recount what you have told us here, so I would ask that you do not leave the surrounding area just yet.”

The man bowed and left the room accompanied by Brynden, he would see that the man was paid and then return so they could discuss what they had just been told as well as the arrangements for the summit to be held in the next few days between Aegon Targaryen and Stannis Baratheon.

Sansa collapsed back into her chair and ran a hand over her face; a Targaryen with dragons, one who did not care for the people she ruled over, and who was advised by a slaver and a Lannister. There was no way this was ever going to end well.

When Brynden returned he brought with him a decanter of wine, Sansa only kept fruit juices and water in her office, and he poured them both a cup. She drank deeply from her cup despite her distaste for wine, and the strong taste helped to settle her mind.

“We’re going to need to tell everyone of this new danger.” She said once she had drained her cup, she could hear the exhaustion in her own tone but she did not care. She had hoped that once the Lannisters were gone from Kings Landing they could focus on rebuilding, instead it looked like they were facing yet another war.

“Aye, we will.” Brynden agreed, “It might serve to make Targaryen and Baratheon work together though, nothing brings people together like a threat.”

That would be the best case scenario, they could only hope that blood wouldn’t call to blood and Aegon Targaryen wouldn’t choose his aunt over the people he had fought side by side with.


	6. Brynden

The Great Hall was crowded, but not with men from the Winter Kingdoms, instead it was full with posturing Storm Lords and Essosi sell-swords.

He and Sansa sat at the high table, overlooking the arguments that were occurring in front of them. Jon sat with them, as did Oberyn and Garlan; but while Jon was there to support his sister, the other two were there as representatives from the Reach and Dorne for any choice made would affect them far more than any of Sansa’s subjects.

Both Baratheon and Targaryen had shown up in the colours of their Houses, their clothes impractical for the weather of the North for being made of silks and velvets, but they did look as Kings were supposed to.

Aegon Targaryen looked like Prince Rhaegar come again, the blue dye gone from his hair leaving it white-blond and shining in the torchlight. For those of them who had been at the tourney in Harrenhal, it was a sight that had many of them flinching and inclined to mistrust him.

Stannis Baratheon on the other hand, no songs would be sung about the way he looked, he was severe and looked far less comfortable in his velvets than he did in his armour. He was not friendly or open, in the same way that Targaryen appeared to be, and he would win no friends with his severe outlook on justice; yet the fact he was the true heir would be enough for many.

Both parties had been offered bread and salt, in an attempt to prevent bloodshed within the walls of Winterfell, for although Targaryen did not fully understand the nuances of such a thing, his advisors did so and would ensure he kept to convention.

“Lord Targaryen, you hold no claim upon the lands of Westeros, your family were removed from the throne and with it any claim you might have under our laws.” Baratheon finally stated, “You also know little of our cultures and traditions and are not fit to claim kingship over a people you know nothing of.”

Mutters broke out on the Targaryen side of the room, much as they might have wished to, none could deny the truth of such words. No one could deny that Aegon Targaryen did not know of their traditions when they had just witnessed him needing the rite of Bread and Salt explained to him.

“My lords, Your Grace, it seems there is an obvious solution that everyone is missing,” Lord Connington declared, moving to the centre of the hall, “King Stannis has a daughter, and Aegon is unmarried. Betroth the two and we shall support your reign.”

The reactions of the lords on the Targaryen side of the rom told Brynden that this was planned, that all the arguments they had made so far had been to push for such a thing.

Logically it was a good match, it would tie the last of the Targaryen supporters and Dorne to the Baratheons and would end the power struggle between the two, and yet, Shireen was ten and Aegon ten-and-eight, it was an age difference that no one should be comfortable with.

The lords on Baratheon’s side huddled together to discuss it, and it was all but impossible t tell what Baratheon himself thought of it, although his Hand had blanched and looked horrified.

It did not take overly long for Baratheon to answer the proposal, “The Princess Shireen will be betrothed to Lord Aegon, however there will be stipulations in place and no marriage will occur until Shireen is at least eight-and-ten.”

Targaryen stepped forwards this time and grasped Baratheon’s arm in a soldier’s clasp, “Then I would swear fealty to you, Your Grace.”

“Do you know the words?”

“I do.”

Aegon Targaryen knelt before Stannis Baratheon, his sword before him with the point against the stone.

“I, Aegon of House Targaryen, swear fealty to you, King Stannis of House Baratheon, I swear to uphold your laws and defend your actions, this I swear by the Old Gods and the New.”

Baratheon unsheathed his own sword and set it upon Targaryen’s shoulder, “Aegon of House Targaryen, I accept your oath of fealty and grant you the principality of Dragonstone to rule over in the name of the Crown.”

The sword was removed and Baratheon offered Targaryen a hand up to standing, which the lad took quite happily. They stood opposite one another, Baratheon and Targaryen allies for the first time since Rhaegar stole Lyanna.

It was a moment that would likely go down in the history books, but when Brynden looked at Sansa he could tell she wasn’t happy by what had occurred to get them there. It was subtle, her distaste, but apparent to those who knew her well enough.

* * *

“Its foul.” Sansa stormed around the room, “Shireen is ten years old, and Aegon eight-and-ten, any marriage between them would be horrifyingly balanced in Aegon’s favour, even if they did wait until Shireen is of a more suitable age.”

She looked so much like Cat as she paced around speaking of the injustice of such a betrothal that for a moment Brynden was returned to Riverrun in the years before the Rebellion. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and tried to think of the best way to calm her down.

“I understand your anger, truly I do.” He tried, “But surely one unhappy marriage is better than thousands of lives lost?”

Sansa rounded on him, a snarl twisting her pretty face into an expression more similar to that of a wolf than a girl, “An unhappy marriage can lead to thousands of lives lost when that marriage is the highest in the realm. Just look at the destruction caused by the unhappy marriage of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon.”

Brynden had to admit that his niece had a point, but both sides of the alliance the betrothal would seal were too proud to accept anything less.

“Sweetling,” He tried, holding out his arms to offer comfort, “It might not turn out like that. They might have a happy marriage.”

Sansa burrowed into the comfort he offered and her voice was suspiciously choked when she spoke.

“It was awful enough arranging Arya’s betrothal, and at least she and Robin are the same age. This just seems like Stannis is selling his daughter.”

There was nothing Brynden could bring himself to say to that, no platitudes he could offer, so he merely held Sansa and tried to offer a silent comfort as she reconciled herself to the decision the lords had made.

* * *

“Edmure.” Brynden pressed his forehead against his nephew’s, “I know, it’s difficult, but I promise, slowly it will get better.”

Edmure let out what could only be described as a sob and Brynden moved him so that his head rested against his shoulder and wrapped his arm around him.

“Its not fair.” Edmure said softly, “Why did Cat and Lysa have to die when there are so many bad people in the world?”

Brynden sighed slightly and tightened his hold on Edmure.

“I know lad, it isn’t fair, your sisters should have got to live long enough to see their children grow. They should have got the chance to meet your son and told your wife embarrassing stories from your youth.”

Edmure sniffed against his shoulder and Brynden let him hold on as tightly as he needed to, his nephew still wasn’t fully recovered from his time as a prisoner of the Freys, nor had he fully healed from the injuries he had sustained during the battles at the Wall.

Slowly, gently, he manoeuvred them both so they were sat on the sofa that Brynden just knew had belonged to Cat. Hostor had never liked it when Edmure had shown any sort of emotion as a boy, so the lad had always relied on Cat or Brynden to show such things to. His nephew had a gentle soul, and although he tried to hide it, he felt deeply.

It was likely the first real chance Edmure had had to mourn for his sisters, the news of Lysa’s death had come while they were fighting, and there had been too much to do before to be able to properly mourn Cat.

“Once we’ve taken Kings Landing, and the Lannisters are gone, we’ll travel back via Riverrun.” Brynden said, “Then I can meet you son and you can show your nieces around the castle in peacetime and tell them all the embarrassing stories about Cat.”

Edmure raised his head at that and a faint smile crossed his face, “Like the time Lysa smuggled kittens into the castle and we only found out when one managed to get its head stuck in a ball of wool and ran around in panic? And then we all spent the next moon hiding the wool when Cat walked into a room in case she did the same thing.”

Brynden did remember that incident, he also remembered the vengeance that Cat had enacted on them both for that, “Wasn’t that what caused her to sew you and Lysa into your beds?”

Edmure coloured dramatically and mumbled an agreement, he probably still couldn’t much see the funny side, although Hostor and Brynden had both found it hilarious.

No one who had known Cat or Lysa after their marriages would believe how mischievous and troublesome they had once been; and more than once he had been reminded of their antics while listening to Cat talk about Arya and Bran. Those two were definitely the children who had taken after her the most in personality

He and Edmure traded stories for a while longer of the antics of Cat and Lysa, remembering and mourning them as the last people who had truly known them.

* * *

“Bran, I have a surprise for you.” Brynden said, knocking on the door of his nephew’s room, “It’s one I think you’ll be excited to see.”

He was very pleased with this surprise if he did say it himself, he’d had help from Theon and Jon putting it together and it was one he hoped his nephew would appreciate.

Bran left his room with a slightly suspicious look on his face, and promptly glared at the stairs, they had attempted to put ramps in around the castle for Bran’s chair, but some stairs just weren’t suitable for them. And unfortunately the stairs to the family wing were as such.

Brynden lifted Bran up to carry him down the stairs and to the chair that awaited him at the bottom, it had been Rickon’s idea to have multiple chairs and it was one that certainly made life easier for everyone as it meant a servant was not needed to carry the chair up and down stairs at all times.

“Where are we going?” Bran questioned him as Brynden led him out of the castle and into the courtyard by the stables.

“Theon mentioned that before Robb left Winterfell, you had a special saddle, designed so that you could ride even without the use of your legs.” Brynden answered, helping Bran over an uneven patch of ground, “We managed to find the plans for that and had anther made, and since today is so lovely we thought you might want to try it out.”

Bran’s face lit up with delight, and for a moment he looked exactly like the nine-year-old he was, instead of the solemn faced child-prophet he had been since his journey Beyond the Wall.

“Really?” He demanded eagerly and Brynden nodded and chuckled.

“Really.”

He didn’t tell Bran that they had a picnic planned as well, nor that all his siblings would be joining them, that would be a nice surprise for him once he was on his horse.

Brynden helped Bran up into the special saddle and strapped his legs in place and quite without practice or rehearsal the others filed in to mount their own horses, even Sansa for all she had no great love of riding was joining them, and Rickon was perched in front of Jon once more.

Tormund and his girls were also accompanying them, and he had the littlest in front of him while the other rode with a slightly terrified looking Theon. Edmure had volunteered to stay behind and deal with any issues that arose while they were out, so that both Brynden and Sansa could go, and Brynden had left him strict instructions to follow and asked Maege Mormont to be present in case it was an issue with the Northern Lords whose politics were different enough from the rest of Westeros that Edmure would need help with.

The snow in the forest had mostly cleared from the ground, leaving a carpet of pine needles behind, interspaced with the bright green shoots of new spring growth. The air was crisp and clear and the sun shone through, creating a dappled effect beneath the trees. Birdsong would have rung through the air if it were not instead filled with the giggles and shouts of Brynden’s companions.

Any animals or birds not scared off by the sound of the laughter were certainly scared off by the pack of direwolves that easily kept pace with the horses, each one loping alongside their owner with ease.

Jon had mentioned to Brynden of a small lake they had used to visit and that was where they were headed. It was a place of good memories for his nieces and nephews and somewhere he hoped they could act their ages as opposed to the adults the wars had forced them to become.

Admittedly, one was married and the other was in his twenties, but they still deserved the chance to be carefree for once.

His saddlebags were packed with food for them t share once they reached the lake, and he had even managed to get sweetcakes from the kitchens, which he knew none of them had eaten in a while considering the food shortages they had needed to contend with.

The little lake was rather beautiful, the trees around it just budding and enough shoots were coming through the ground that made it obvious that it would be a place full of wildflowers when the weather warmed enough. It was lush enough it reminded him of the Riverlands, and Brynden could see why Arya had referred to it as Cat’s favourite place to ride to.

Brynden and Theon moved around to set out horse blankets for them to sit upon, and once there was a thick layer on the ground Bran was carried over to sit upon them. His wolf instantly curled up next to him, keeping him even warmer in the cool air and Bran looked at the sun on the water in obvious delight.

Shouting broke out to one side as Jon produced a ball made from scraps of leather and gave it to Arya, Rickon and Tormund’s girls to play with, and all four began to shriek with delight when Tormund started to chase them in a mock attempt to take it from them.

Sansa disappeared into the outskirts of the wood, her wolves and Theon at her side, and when Brynden asked Bran what he thought she was doing he mentioned that she loved to make flower crowns if flowers were available.

Jon moved to take his spot next to Bran when Brynden got up to unpack the food, and he watched as they began to play a complicated looking game involving coloured stones that he had seen other Northern children play before.

Despite the loudness of it all, there was a sense of peace to the air and Brynden could not contain the grin that broke out on his face as he looked over his family, it was moments like this that gave him reason to fight.


	7. Jon

“Queen Sansa.” Lady Greyjoy was much more respectful than usual, “I’ve received word from the Islands, my uncle has left for Essos, and I would go take my home back.”

Her declaration caused muttering to break out among the lords, although none of it was surprised, everyone knew that Lady Asha had merely been biding her time until she would have the best shot at regaining her throne.

“Of course, Lady Greyjoy,” Sansa said with an amused smirk, “Or should that be Queen Asha?”

A savage grin split Lady Asha’s face, “Not just yet, I want my crown before I claim the title. And preferably Euron’s head on a spike as well.”

It was sentences like those that reminded Jon just how functional his family really was, none of them went around declaring they wished to put another family member’s head on a spike.

“Well, we wish you the best of luck with that, Lady Asha. And as a token of our friendship, please, let me know if there is aught we can do to help.”

“There is one thing,” Lady Asha said, “I would ask that my brother be allowed to remain here, no matter what happens on the Islands.”

It almost went without saying that Theon would be allowed to live in Winterfell for as long as he wished, but Jon could understand why she would want the reassurance declared in front of the lords of the North.

“Lord Theon will have a home in Winterfell for as long as the Starks live here.” Sansa decreed, “And should your campaign not go as planned Lady Asha, you too will be welcome here until you get another chance to regain your home.”

It was a risky move offering that to her, but Jon knew why Sansa had done it, knew she did not want to force Asha Greyjoy to rely on the charity of those less honourable should her quest for the Salt Throne fail.

“Thank you, Queen Sansa.” Lady Greyjoy bowed her head before turning about face and marching from the room. Jon knew that by morn all her men would be gone from the walls of Winterfell to lay siege to Pyke. With any luck, the next time he would see her would be when they besieged Kings Landing, otherwise they would have a harder time taking the city.

* * *

The Dreadfort was as intimidating as Jon had remembered it to be, the dark stone walls rising high above the landscape creating an imposing sight that even his banners hanging from the walls could not soften. The surrounding land was less scarred than the lands around Winterfell, no army had camped there and no fire had scorched the fields.

It was still strange to think of it as his own, to think that he would be in charge of these lands and that some day they would be passed on to his heir.

But however strange it was for him, it was even stranger for Tormund. Tormund had never thought he would ever be living Below the Wall, let alone as the ruler of a castle and its lands.

Not that he would be doing much ruling unless he wanted to, Jon was happy for Tormund to spend his days training and hunting if that was his desire, but he didn’t think Tormund would do that. His husband had a strong sense of honour and duty, and with some of the Free Folk joining them he would work to ensure they were cared for.

Theon had offered to accompany them, pointing out that he knew the castle and lands, as well as those of the household who had revelled in the brutal ways of the Boltons. It would be a boon to have him there, but Jon wondered what it would do for his still recovering health.

They rode into the courtyard to see the household assembled as they had been when he last visited to clear the dungeons. There was a slight hint of fear in the air, but nowhere near as much as there had been when he last rode in.

“My Lord.” The steward, Walten he thought his name was, bowed. “Welcome home.”

Jon tried to emulate his father as he dismounted, “Thank you. I trust the rooms have been set up as I ordered?”

He had sent detailed orders on ahead, containing not only information on how many rooms needed to be aired and set up, but also sending orders for new bedding to be procured for he had no desire to sleep in a bed once inhabited by anyone with Bolton blood.

“Of course, my lord. May I ask why you wished for the nursery to be opened?” Walten asked, keeping his eyes lowered.

“My stepdaughters will be living here.” Jon answered simply, “They are to be treated as though they were mine own trueborn heirs. Now, I would appreciate it if you would show us to our chambers and have baths sent so that we might wash off the dirt of the road.”

A flurry of movement began after he finished speaking and it was not long before they were being ushered to the main doors of the keep.

The snarl of Greywind drew his attention and Jon turned from the doors to see Theon all but cowering before two poorly dressed and filthy men. Greywind’s hackles were raised and Jon was sure it was only Theon’s hand in his fur that kept the direwolf from ripping the men’s throats out.

He swiftly moved towards the scene, brushing off the concerned hand that Tomrund placed on his arm. He had Ghost at his heels, no one could hurt him while his wolf was there.

“What do you think you are doing?” He asked frostily, channelling Lady Catelyn at her most cold.

“Milord, we, we was just offerin’ to show Reek here back to his room.” One of the men said, and Jon did not even attempt to hide the anger those words sparked in him.

“Lord Greyjoy is my guest, my brother. If I hear anyone referring to him by that horrific name again, I will have them flogged. Do I make myself clear?”

His words were punctuated by another snarl from Greywind, and Ghost snarled silently as well beside him.

The men flinched and hastened to offer apologies, “Yes milord, sorry, sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Jon highly doubted they would keep that promise, but he had already made the punishment for disobeying him on this clear, and they would serve as a good example should they chose to perpetuate their former masters’ violent ways.

He turned away coldly and did not have to look to know that Theon was following closely. He wanted to offer comfort but could not, not until they were hidden from those that they did not know whether to trust.

Almost as soon as the door to the family chambers was shut Theon collapsed to the floor with great heaving sobs, clutching his knees to his chest in a way that Jon had not seen him do since he had helped him shoot again.

“Hey, Theon, it’s alright.” Jon tried to sooth; he reached a hand out ad did not take it personally when Theon flinched away. “You know none of us will let you get hurt.”

He moved slowly and made sure to broadcast all his movements but eventually managed to wrap his arms around a trembling Theon. The slightly hysterical thought crossed his mind that if Robb could see them he would have been ecstatic for he had always despaired of them ever getting along.

“If you really don’t feel safe here, then I can arrange for some people to take you back to Winterfell?” Jon offered, “Tormund and I can probably muddle through on our own.”

Theon took a deep breath and visibly steeled himself, “No, you need me here. I can tell you who enjoyed the Boltons’ rule and where the hidden places are, it’ll take you too long otherwise.”

“Only if you’re sure.” Jon conceded, “But really it’s no trouble to send you home if you need it.”

“They are both dead, and ghosts cannot harm me.” His voice only wavered slightly when he spoke and Jon was struck by how brave he was being.

He stepped away, but still close enough that Theon could grab him if need be, “Can you tell me about the men in the courtyard? Or would you rather wait until tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow, please.” Theon pleaded and Jon nodded.

He crossed the room to where a carafe of wine had been left for them and poured a glass. He held it out to Theon and watched as the man he had just publicly called his brother drank deeply.

They could do this, they could make the Dreadfort more than its reputation.

The only worry was, whether they would have the time to do much before Jon had to leave again.

* * *

It did not take long before the men tried again. Jon had been informed that they had been part of the group that had run around with Ramsay Snow, aiding and abetting him with his many crimes.

He came across them attempting to torment a maid while Theon tried to make them stop. Considering it was a far cry from the Theon who had only noticed the maids when he wanted to get his dick wet, Jon was curious and watched to see what exactly was going to happen next.

What did happen was horrible and had Jon rushing in almost as soon as it began.

The men turned their attention from the girl, who fled as soon as their backs were turned, and onto Theon who instantly began to cower. One took a handful of Theon’s hair and used it to drag him to his side while the other leered.

“Do we think Reek’s screams will be even more sweet now it thinks it’s a person again?”

“Let. Him. Go.” Jon stalked towards them with his hand on the pommel of Longclaw, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.

“And why should we?” One asked with newly found bravado, “It’s obvious you ain’t using him as he should be used milord, so why shouldn’t we get a go at him?”

“You will unhand Lord Greyjoy, or you will lose your hands alongside the flogging you will already be receiving.”

They spat at him, “We don’t take orders from up jumped bastard pups. Let u have our fun with Reek here, and perhaps we won’t involve the wildling bitches you brought with you, unless of course you’d like to join us _milord_ your face is prettier than half the girls here.”

Jon flicked a quick glance at Theon who nodded imperceptibly, there were benefits to have grown up learning to fight together, and the synchronisation with which thy moved was certainly one of them.

Jon drew Longclaw as Theon grabbed the dagger from his boot and wrenched himself away from the men, leaving a few strands of hair in one’s hand.

“I offer you one last chance.” Jon snarled, “Surrender and it will be easier on you.”

The men answered by rushing at him and Theon with knives in their hands, and Jon took it as a rejection of his offer.

“Don’t kill them.” He called the Theon, “Its better if an example is made of them in public.”

He could picture the eyeroll Theon gave him although he could not see it, but Theon shouted back his agreement.

It did not take them long to have the two men knocked to the floor and bound with their own belts, they had the advantage of training even if they were smaller than the men. The fact that Jon had a sword had certainly helped matters as well.

“Go get some of the guards we brought from Winterfell,” Jon ordered, “I’ll keep an eye on these two.”

He glared down at the two and resisted the urge to spit on them, their execution would work well to solidify his hold and announce the type of lord he was.

* * *

Jon had less than a month at the Dreafort before he would need to leave again. Admittedly, h was going to Winterfell first for the celebrations for Sansa’s name-day, but then he would be joining the armies heading South to remove the Lannister threat.

He would be leaving Tormund behind, leaving him with the girls and the running of their home for he would not ask him to fight in the southern kingdoms. Not when their treaty with the Free Folk promised they would do no such thing, it would be selfish to break their treaty because he wanted the man he loved by his side.

Jon curled closer into Tormund’s side as they lay in bed, the thoughts swirling in his mind with a kind of viciousness.

“I’m going to miss you when I’m camped outside Kings Landing.” He muttered sleepily.

“What do you mean by that?” Tormund asked, suddenly alert, “I’m coming with you, aren’t I?”

“We promised we would not ask any of the Free Folk to fight below the Neck, and we are keeping to that promise.” Jon tried to explain, “And, well, I would feel better if I knew there was someone who would care for my siblings if something happened while I am South.”

Tormund’s face hardened, “And that’s why I should be with you, to keep something from happening to you in the South.”

Jon reached out his hand to cup Tormund’s cheek, “And I need you here. The girls need you here, they can’t lose another parent so soon.”

Tormund placed his own hand over Jon’s and sighed, “I do not like this, you will keep yer wolf close when yer go South, for my peace of mind, if nothing else.”

“I promise.” Jon said with a soft smile, “Now, help me think of something to gift Sansa for her name-day. She spent the last on as a hostage and I want this one to be good enough to overwrite that.”


	8. Sansa

“We’ve had ten more offers through today.” Brynden announced, placing the scrolls down on Sansa’s desk. “None of which are anywhere near appropriate for you, but you have to admire their audacity if nothing else.”

Sansa flicked through them, glancing at the seals and making note of the Houses, at least half of them were too small a House to even be considered even before she was a queen, others were from men at least a decade older than her, and one was discarded for it came from a Bravosii lord.

“Is there any way we can stop these offers? So many of them are just wasting our time, time which could be better spent on almost anything else.”

She rested her head on the desk in what she knew was a dramatic gesture, but one that felt completely justified. Since taking back Winterfell they had received a steady stream of offers of betrothal for her which ranged from unsuitable to downright insulting, and the number only seemed to be increasing.

“Well, there is one option.” Brynden said, he raised an eyebrow and looked at her with humour, “If you are betrothed then you shouldn’t receive any more offers of betrothal.”

It was a great feat of effort to not throw something at him, especially as he had the exact same tone of voice that Arya did when she was teasing her.

“Ugh.” Sansa groaned slightly, she had just escaped two terrible betrothals and did not really want to enter another.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Brynden placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, “It will be different this time, you know. You’ll be the one with the power and nothing has to happen until you are ready, a betrothal is not a marriage after all.”

Sansa knew this, she just wanted a moment to complain and act like the child that in an ideal world she would still be.

“I know, I know. And I have been thinking about it already.” Sansa turned to look her uncle in the eyes so she could gauge his reaction, “I was thinking of offering my troth to Loras Tyrell.”

“Talk me through your reasoning.” Brynden said in his teaching voice.

“Well, I need to marry someone who is of high enough rank that other houses are not offended, but at the same time they need to be a second or third son because any children will need to take the Stark name.” Sansa started to list. She looked up at Brynden for his approval and he nodded.

“Go on, what else? Why the Tyrells over anyone else?”

“Well aside from the fact the only other Great Houses that would be appropriate would be the Martells, of whom have already been favoured by my gifting of the Twins to Oberyn’s daughters, or the Greyjoys and there is no way I’m marrying Theon. Marriage to the Tyrells would promote trade between our lands, and since the Reach is the most fertile land in Westeros it is trade that will be useful when Winter comes again. Also it will work as thanks for their aid in retaking my lands.”

Brynden nodded once more, “And of course, it will give Lady Margaery an excuse to come to Winterfell and potentially even stay if she so wished.”

Sansa blushed at the knowing look he sent her, admittedly she would much prefer to marry Margaery over Loras, but she had a need for heirs of her blood if she did not want there to be a succession crisis upon her death.

“Let’s discuss the terms you would like laid out when the offer is made.” He said, pulling a fresh sheet of paper over, “And I would suggest we hint of our offer to Lady Olenna and Willas first, so that they might help us lay the groundwork better with Lord Tyrell. The man is notoriously prideful and some of what you are suggesting would be unforgivable in his eyes unless he is softened up first.”

* * *

The tower room Sansa was headed to was not one in which she had spent much time as a child, it had been a guest chamber while her mother ran Winterfell’s household, and now it served as a prison for one whose position and fate was uncertain.

“Lady Walda, I trust you are comfortable?” Sansa asked, she held put a hand out to prevent the heavily pregnant woman from trying to curtsey, “I would not have you suffering any discomfort.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lady Walda said in a small voice, “Everyone has been very kind.”

Jon had sent her a warning that there were some in the Dreadfort who aimed to restore the Boltons to their home if Lady Walda bore a boy, and while he and Theon were working to remove them she could not be too careful.

“I am pleased.” Sansa sat on one of the push chairs by the fire, “Please sit, I would rather you not become too discomforted purely because of ceremony.”

The lady sat hurriedly and wrung her hands in her skirts with obvious anxiety. Her face was pale, and Sansa knew she was worried what would happen to her and her child once she had given birth, it was the reason that Sansa was there, after all.

“Was there something I can do for you, Your Grace?” Lady Walda asked, a slight quiver to her voice.

Sansa placed a hand on Lady Walda’s knee, “I came to inform you of what will happen once your child is born. Should the child be a girl, then you are welcome to return to your mother provided you swear to never try and raise arms against me or my family, I will of course help to provide a suitable dowry for her should she chose to marry. However, should you have a son he will not be allowed to leave the North and will be sent to a loyal household. The Mormonts have offered to take him in, and you as well. Or I am willing to provide funds so that you might make a home for yourself and your child in Essos, provided you never return to Westeros, no matter the gender of your child.”

The choices she offered to Lady Walda were generous, would perhaps be deemed too generous by many, but Sansa could not bring herself to be cruel even while neutralising the threat the babe in Lady Walda’s belly posed.

“You, you are too kind, Your Grace.” Lady Walda whispered, she moved her hands to cradle her belly, “Might I have time to make my choice?”

Sansa smiled gently, “Of course. You may have until you have birthed your child to make your choice.”

* * *

Sansa did not really want to celebrate her name-day, not when she would rather have her parents and brother back instead. But it was expected of her to hold a great celebration, just as it would be when it was Rickon’s name-day again. The people and the lords would expect a feast of some type, even if all Sansa really wanted to do was hide in the family solar with her siblings and uncles.

The only bonus was the Jon was returning early from setting up his household at the Dreadfort, a task she knew was nowhere near complete but was one he had left in the hands of Tormund. She knew he was still looking for staff that would fill the gaps made by the removal of those still loyal to the Boltons, a problem she believed she might have the answer to.

“Sweet sister.” Jon pressed a kiss to her forehead as she sat at the breakfast table, “Happy name-day.”

He had arrived the previous evening with little fanfare, and had Rickon stuck to him all night from what she had heard. Not that she was surprised by that, Rickon had taken the separation from their brother harshly, he had been fearful that he would not see him again.

“We have cleared the morning for you.” Jon announced to her once he had food in front of him, “You are going to spend it in the family solar with all of us, so we can spend you name-day the way you want to before you need to deal with the celebrations of the lords this afternoon and evening.”

That was more then she had expected and her eyes started to feel suspiciously wet at their thoughtfulness.

One she and Jon had finished eating they made their way to the family solar, where the others awaited her. Only Brynden was not present, for he had likely taken her duties for the morning upon his own shoulders. Ellaria was present, the only person there who was not of her family, but Sansa did not mind for Ellaria had been a motherly figure and a comfort to her since Kings Landing.

“Happy name-day.” Rickon trilled. He pressed a soft gift into her hands, one tied with a bright blue ribbon.

Sansa pressed a sweet kiss to his forehead and opened the package to reveal a pair of rabbit skin gloves. “Thank you, sweetling.” She said, “These are very lovely indeed.”

He shuffled in place slightly, “Shaggy caught the rabbits and, and Osha helped me make them! I put your letter on them, see!”

Rickon pointed to a clumsily stitched ‘S’ on the cuff of the gloves, done in a bright blue thread. The stitches were uneven and simple, but it was one of the most beautiful things she had seen, for the time it must have taken him and the fact Rickon would have had to sit still to do so.

“I am very impressed.” She told him sincerely, “And I will treasure them.”

Rickon wiggled in place for a moment with a please smile, before darting in and hugging her with a force strong enough to almost make her wince. He released her from the hug just as quickly and ran off to play by the hearth with the direwolves, his pleased smile never leaving his face.

Arya and Bran approached her next, although Arya shot a slight scowl at Rickon as though concerned his present was going to beat hers. Arya had always been a little over competitive.

“We got you a joint present.” Bran said, “And its kind of from Theon as well.”

Sansa’s interest was piqued by that, the three of them did not like working with other people, let alone with each other. The shape of the gift however, instantly answered all her questions.

It was a very lovely bow, carved of a pale wood and etched with vines, the only problem was that Sansa had no knowledge whatsoever on how to use it.

“Its beautiful, thank you. But I don’t know how to use it.”

She had expected the eye roll from Arya, had even expected it from Theon, but when Bran also rolled his eyes she was a little taken aback.

“We know that.” Arya scoffed, “That’s why the other part of your present is lessons in how to use it from us.”

Sansa was genuinely touched by their gift, both the physical aspect of it and the fact it meant they wished to spend time with her and for her to have some way to defend herself.

“Thank you. Truly.” She said, moving so she could press a kiss to each of their cheeks.

Theon and Bran flushed slightly, and Arya scrubbed at her cheek with her hand in apparent displeasure, but with a happy light in her eyes.

“My gift is not as impressive as theirs,” Jon said with a mock sigh, “But I did find this.”

He handed her a small box and when Sansa opened it the tears that had threatened her earlier truly began to fall. She reached in and pulled out a strand of pale grey freshwater pearls that she knew so well, pearls that had belonged to her mother and that they had thought long lost, either in the fire or the reign of the Boltons.

“We found them in the lord’s chambers at the Dreadfort,” Jon explained, “And, well I thought it fitting that they be returned to you, four-and-ten years from the day they were first gifted.”

Sansa wrapped him up in a tight hug, for Jon to have remembered such a thing was something indeed, seeing as her mother had never let him near the necklace, not like she had with the rest of them.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She cried against him, and he held her back just as tightly.

They separated and she reverently placed the pearls back in their box, she would wear them that evening when she needed to entertain the lords and where she would receive the rest of the gifts prepared for her name-day, the largely impersonal ones meant to display loyalty rather than knowledge of her. The only one she was really looking forward to was the one from her uncles, for while it was required that they present it to her in public she knew it would be personal.

“Sansa?” Rickon looked at her with his head cocked like one of the wolves. “Can we play a game?”

Sansa smiled and swept him into her arms, ignoring how heavy he had suddenly seemed to become, “Of course we can, sweetling. What would you like to play?”

* * *

The Council room was stuffed full of lords from all over Westeros, many of them still looking slightly hungover although they attempted to hide it. All of the Great Houses were represented in some way, Arya and Lord Royce stepping in for House Arryn, and many of the minor Houses had a voice as well.

It was a more wide-spread alliance and display than even Robert’s Rebellion had garnered against the Targaryens, and Sansa wondered if Tywin Lannister felt flattered that so many stood against him. That he had been deemed a great enough threat that every kingdom bar the Westerlands stood against him, and even then, his son aided them in their planning to some extent.

“We will engage the Lannister forces near Duskendale, we have leaked information to Lannister that our armies will build camp there, which should serve to… encourage him into attacking there.” Brynden indicated on the map where they were planning on engaging Tywin Lannister.

“Should the battle go as planned,” Stannis Baratheon continued where Brynden had left off, “We will head to Kings Landing to deliver our terms for their surrender and besiege the city until it falls.”

The lords all nodded at that, and some, especially those who had been caught up in the Red Wedding, looked rather bloodthirsty at the prospect.

“The Princess Shireen and Queen Selyse are welcome to remain here until the Iron Throne is yours,” Sansa offered, “They will be safe here from any attacks that the Lannisters might engineer.”

She did not say that they would serve as an assurance that their deal would be kept, if it was not understood by Baratheon then he was less intelligent then everyone thought him to be. It was perhaps not the most honourable move, but even her father had kept Theon as a hostage.

Baratheon nodded sharply at her, “Thank you, Queen Sansa. If they could join you when you start your travels down then I would be grateful.”

Sansa had forgotten that she needed to go South once more, that she would need to go the Kings Landing to witness the trails of the Lannisters as well as having their kingdoms’ independence from the Iron Throne officially decreed.

“My father has ships prepared to transport the Winter forces, Queen Sansa.” Ser Wylis Manderley said, his hand brushing over White Harbour on the map, “And he sends word that the Baratheon and Targaryen ships docked are in good repair and only need to be stocked to set sail.”

Undoubtedly Lord Manderley would charge Baratheon and Targaryen a higher price for supplies for their ships than he did to the Sansa’s lords, but Sansa found no fault in that, especially when they had not yet decided on anything as mundane as trade tariffs between their lands just yet.

With everything but the most minor minutiae decided the lords began to file out of the room to prepare for their departure for White Harbour and the ships that awaited them there. Sansa stopped Arya before she could leave however, and Brienne as well.

“Arya, I know you want to accompany Brienne in battle because you are her squire.” Sansa began.

Arya cut her off, “I really do! I promise I’ll listen to her and Jon and Brynden and won’t cause any trouble.”

Sansa smiled slightly, “I know you won’t. Which is why, with Brienne’s agreement, I have decided that you can join the camp. However,” She interrupted before Arya could start to celebrate too much, “You must remain in the camp during the actual battle, you are still too young to fight on the field.”

Arya’s celebration was slightly more subdued at that but she hugged Sansa tightly nonetheless. “Thank you!”

“Is this alright, Lady Brienne?” Sansa asked.

Lady Brienne nodded, “I would be happy to have her join me. Provided of course that she behaves.”

Arya nodded ferociously, “I will, I promise.”

Sansa smiled at her as she dashed out of the room to pack, followed at a more sedate pace by Brienne and hoped that nothing would go wrong, that by keeping Arya out of the battle she would remain safe and unhurt. She didn’t know what she would do if she lost her little sister.


	9. Brynden

As much as Brynden enjoyed being surrounded by his nieces and nephews, it was nice to be in the Riverlands once more. Even though there was snow on the ground, it was light and the wind was no where near as sharp as the Northern winds seemed to be; and compared to the Wall it was positively balmy.

He could tell that the sentiment was echoed by all the Southerners, but the Northerners complained of the heat and many had shed their furs despite the snow. Jon was among those who had refused to wear any heavy clothes, and had explained that it was really only as cold as the coldest days of Summer in the North.

Once he had thought the tales of Summer snows a myth, but that belief had been dashed the first time he had spoken to a Northerner, and now that he had travelled there, he wondered how he had ever believed such a thing.

“Uncle Brynden?” Arya slipped into his tent with a hint of fear on her features.

“Arya? Is everything alright, sweetling?” He held out his arms in invitation and she barely hesitated before rushing into them.

She buried her head against his shoulder and answered him in a voice so small he had to strain to hear it, “We’re going to go home, right? You won’t just leave me and Jon behind?”

Oh. Well that explained why she had stuck close to him; she was scared he would leave her as Ned Stark had done. He knew that Arya logically knew her father had not had a choice in abandoning her and Sansa in the South, but that emotionally she was scared he would do the same as her father had.

He held her a little tighter, “I will do everything in my power to ensure you and your brother get home again. And if, for some reason I am unable to then your sister will come for you without hesitation, you know she would.”

“Robb didn’t.”

Her voice had somehow got even smaller, and for a moment she sounded her true age with all the bravado stripped from her that usually made her seem older than her one-and-ten years.

Brynden huffed out a slight sigh, whilst he understood why Robb had not been able to rescue his sisters, that choice would follow the two of them for the rest of their lives.

“And that is why Sansa will. You know she would do anything to keep all of you safe, because she knows what it is like to be left behind. And f for some reason she can’t and I can’t and Jon can’t, then do you think Brienne or Oberyn or Robin will leave you? Its Brienne’s job to protect you alongside teaching you, Oberyn would not let something happen to anyone Ellaria is fond of, and Robin is already more than half in love with you.” He soothed.

Arya relaxed slightly in his hold, but Brynden was not stupid enough to think she was fully reassured by his words, likely she wouldn’t feel fully safe until they were passed the Neck once more, and he couldn’t say he blamed her.

Not after how hard she fought to get home the last time.

“Aren’t you supposed to be with Lady Brienne?” He eventually asked, “That is why you are here rather than Winterfell, is it not?”

Arya scoffed and moved out of his hold so she could look him in the eye, “I’m here because you and Sansa and Jon don’t trust me to have not followed after you anyway. This is your assurance that I am safe and you know where I am.”

She was not wrong. That was one of the reasons she had been allowed to join them, alongside Edmure pointing out that if Arya had been a boy it would not have been in question of her accompanying her knight-master to battle.

“Would I do such a thing, little one?” He asked, and had to supress a grin at the unimpressed expression she sent his way.

“Yes.” She nodded emphatically, “Besides, Jon already admitted to it.”

That lad really was wrapped around his little sister’s finger, wasn’t he?

* * *

Brynden was not scared of the meeting that was to take place, he merely had an appropriate level of caution for dealing with the formidable Queen of Thorns.

“Lady Tyrell, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed over her hand and tried to ignore the circumstances of the last time he had seen her.

“Ser Brynden. I’m pleased to see both you and Martell have your clothes on this time.” She sniffed back.

Brynden repressed the groan that wanted to escape, it seemed like she had no such desire to let him forget that the last time they had interacted was when she had walked in on him and Oberyn had been performing acts of debauchery with her oldest grandson.

He was saved from having to come up with an appropriate response to that by Oberyn sweeping in with a flamboyant bow.

“Lady Olenna, if you wanted me out of my clothes you merely had to ask.”

Unfortunately, if Oberyn had thought that would fluster the formidable woman he was wrong.

“Why? It isn’t like you have anything particularly impressive there Martell. I really don’t know why my grandson is so enamoured with you.”

There was a snort off to one side and Brynden turned his head so he could identify the source of it. He really was not surprised when he caught the eye of Garlan, who was grinning as he watched his grandmother’s verbal spar with Oberyn.

Brynden sidled up to him and they exchanged amused glances as Oberyn started to talk about his ‘manhood being impugned’.

“How long is this going to go on for?” Brynden asked quietly, “Only I don’t trust my niece and nephews enough to not be wary of coming back to a camp in chaos.”

Garlan let out another snort, “Granny will get bored soon enough, apparently she has been bereft of someone to cross wits with for a while.”

As though she was summoned by the mere mention of her name she turned to them and gestured at Garlan with her stick.

“You, fool grandson of mine, get over here. Aren’t you supposed to defend my honour?”

There was a grin on Garlan’s face that Brynden recognised as the one Willas did when he was about to say something that he found particularly humorous.

“But Granny, you don’t have any honour left to defend.”

Lady Olenna let out a gasp that would not have been out of place in a mummers’ show, “Garlan Tyrell! How very dare you, who taught you to speak like that?”

Garlan took her arm, “You did Granny. Now, what was it you wanted me for?”

“I need to speak to Stannis Baratheon. And that man without the fingers, I need assurances that my family will be safe before I raise a finger to help the man.”

Force of nature really understated just how forceful Lady Olenna was, the men parted before her as she pulled her grandson towards the tent that flew the Baratheon banners. Brynden could do nothing but follow behind them, with the knowledge of the deal his niece had struck as a shield.

* * *

“That is completely dishonourable.” Lady Brienne frowned.

The Kingslayer threw back his head and laughed, “War isn’t honourable, wench. Its messy and shit-stained and the furthest fucking thing from honourable that you will get.”

Arya looked half-way ecstatic at the poor language Lannister was using and Brynden was tempted to say something about it, but someone else got there first.

“Have care of the language you are using Lannister.” Jon snarled, “Especially around my sister.”

“Lord Reed,” Brynden turned to the craggonman in the hope of cutting off any bickering that was sure to start, “Can your men do such a thing? Can they sneak into the Lannister camp without being detected?”

The lord did not answer straight away, which was reassuring, instead he took the time to investigate the map of the area and the numbers they expected, as well as the camp layout that the Kingslayer and, surprisingly, Arya had described.

When he had questioned her as to how she had that knowledge, Arya had shrugged and said she had spent some time as Tywin Lannister’s cupbearer, and as her ideas matched up with Jaime Lannister’s, it was likely that both of them were reliable.

“It is doable.” Lord Reed eventually said, “But you should have a contingency plan in place.”

Their contingency plan was the Tyrell men that Lady Olenna had brought with her, hidden behind the Lannister encampment and ready to attack from behind should a battle take place.

“Good, then I trust you will choose the men best suited for the task?” Baratheon interjected, and Brynden had the feeling that he only said so because he was feeling slightly left out.

Lord Reed’s back stiffened in insult and he very deliberately only nodded at those from the North as he left the tent to gather his men, even Brynden received no acknowledgment, not that he could blame the man.

They knew it would take a while for that part of their plan to either work or fail, and that meanwhile they had to incorporate the new information Lady Olenna had brought them surrounding the defences of Kings Landing. The knowledge of the new trebuchets that the Lannisters had commissioned was particularly useful, as was the fact that they had resurrected the chain crossing the harbour to prevent ships entering the Blackwater.

That chain would cause problems if the Greyjoy fleet arrived as arranged, they would have to send a message to them in warning or risk losing their allies and opening up the Iron Islands to Euron Greyjoy’s rule once more. Of course all this would rely on Asha Greyjoy being successful, and they had heard no news from her yet.

Discussion and plans and contingency plans ran until the sun had gone from the sky and they were so tired they were repeating the main points over and over and over. Eventually Ser Davos brought his hand down on the table with a noise that startled all of them, and looked his king in the eye.

“Its late, Your Grace, we haven’t done anything productive in over an hour, and half the people here are more than halfway asleep, Princess Arya is asleep.”

Brynden glanced over and sure enough, Arya was asleep, curled up against her brother’s side, letting out tiny snores that seemed obvious once he heard them.

“Aye, it is late and we will need our energy in the morn, no matter what happens.” Brynden said, “Let us retire for now, if anything changes then I am sure we will be roused.”

The lords made various sounds of agreement, and although Baratheon sent him a glare for answering in his place Brynden held his gaze, without Sansa there they were of close to equal standing, and he had just as much right to dismiss them as Baratheon did.

He made to go carry Arya to the tent she shared with Brienne but Jon had already pulled his sister into his arms.

“Its alright, we were going to share tonight anyway, seeing as our wolves are being used elsewhere.”

“If you’re sure.”

He waited until the ad nodded before turning to go to his own tent, he doubted he would sleep but it was better to rest while he had the chance.

He called for food once he was in his tent and ate while looking over the latest missives from the North, a description of Rickon deciding to bite Bran and then being surprised when he was bit back made him chuckle, as did the exasperated tone he could hear through the letter.

“Milord, we have a gift for you.” A man with the lizard-lion on their breast said from the tent entrance, after a few hours had passed.

There were only two things the presence of a craggonman could mean, and as there were no war horns nor the sounds of men rushing to arms it had to be good news.

He let himself be led to the tent they had set up ready to hold their prisoner, the post in the centre as sturdy as could be and the chains attached to it pulled taut so no leverage could be gained. They had placed Northerners as guards, joined by the two direwolves that had joined them. It would take more than a miracle for their prisoner to escape, and the whole continent was rather short on miracles.

Brynden approached the man and smiled down at him, enjoying the rage that filled his eyes above his bound mouth, the useless struggles against the chains on his wrists and ankles.

“Lord Tywin, I trust you will enjoy your stay with us.”

* * *

Brynden did have to admit that Sansa had a far better sense of pageantry and image than he did, had it been up to him he would have trotted out Jaime Lannister dressed in the drab colours and simple styles he had been given to wear in the North. The clothing unadorned by any sigil and the famed Kingslayer looking defeated and a prisoner before the armies of the Westerlands.

Instead of this Sansa and her ladies had come up with some way to make the easy capitulation of the Lannister forces a less bitter pill for the notoriously prideful Westermen to swallow. They had dressed Ser Jaime like the heir to Casterly Rock in a crimson doublet that had been embroidered by Lady Jeyne in the style of the West with gold lions and embellishments; all of it carefully structured and planned to ensure it appeared as though Ser Jaime had sworn to Sansa of his own volition rather than that he was a puppet.

And while it rankled slightly to see the man once more appear the arrogant Kingslayer, the gentle smile the man aimed at Lady Brienne showed that he had not reverted to his old ways alongside his old image.

“Just remember Kingslayer,” Brynden said affably as he slapped the man on the back, “You fuck this up and thousands will die.”

“Yes, and it would be my men, my friends who would be most likely to die. I have no desire to fuck this up Blackfish.” Ser Jaime grumbled back.

The slight selfishness of those words reassured Brynden even further, if one thing could be relied on it was the self-serving nature of a Lannister.

They started to ride out onto the field between the two armies without a word, their banners flying high and proud, showcasing the sheer number of Houses stood against Tywin Lannister.

From the opposite side of the field came a display of Westerlands banners, the shells of House Westerling notably absent from among their ranks, as they had been since Robb had married Jeyne. The burning tree of House Marbrand stood firm in the centre, only slightly below the crimson and golden lion of the Lannisters.

They stopped a good distance from each other, far enough that drawn weaponry in a fit of rage would not be taken as an insult, but close enough that they could speak.

“In the name of Queen Sansa and King Stannis, lay down your arms, surrender and no harm shall come to you or your men.” Brynden called, inwardly he rolled his eyes at the way Baratheon almost preened at the sound of his title.

“And why should we?” A man Brynden identified as Ser Addam Marbrand called back, moving his horse forwards a few steps to make it obvious who was speaking.

“Because they’ve outplayed us Addam.” The Kingslayer drawled, “As we speak my father is a prisoner in their camp, guarded by direwolves, and somehow they’ve convinced the Tyrells to side with them. They outnumber us Addam, and if we lose, we will die.”

“My Lord?” A different Westerlands lord spoke up, with a sigil that Brynden struggled to recognise, as a lad he had always been more occupied by swordplay than lessons, and had never really thought he would hold a position of importance that would require him to know the sigils of those Houses outside of the Riverlands.

“Lord Jaime.” Ser Addam turned to the Kingslayer with a rapt expression, “You are acting Lord Paramount while your father is indisposed, what would you have us do?”

It was clever of the man, to put the decision in the Kingslayer’s hands, a way to protect them when Tywin found out about it. No one in the Westerlands wanted to cross Tywin Lannister, not after the brutality he enacted at Castamere, and yet no one wanted to fight a battle there was little chance they would win either.

“Then, as Lord Paramount of the Westerlands I order you to stand down.” Lannister said, “Return to your homes and do not pick up arms until I call for you again.”

There was a moment of tenseness, where Brynden and his companions wondered if their plan had worked, if the lords of the Westerlands would accept such a thing, and then finally Ser Addam nodded his head in acceptance and bowed to the Kingslayer.

“As you wish, my lord.”

The other lords echoed his statement and one glimpse at Lannister’s face told Brynden that this was genuine.

“If you wish to travel to their camp you are welcome to.” He said in a low voice, “Just remember the deal you made with my niece.”

They might just have won the war without bloodshed, provided the Kingslayer kept to his oath.


	10. Jon

The heat of the South was horrific, and the stink even worse, Jon could hardly breath the air was so warm and cloying. The scent of the city likely did not help with it either, nor the scent of the war camps surrounding it.

Banners hung from the castle that rose above the walls of Kings Landing, lions and crowned stags and roses; the same banners were displayed in their camps sieging the city, alongside wolves, trout, falcons, dragons, and suns, even krakens were on display blockading the Blackwater, for Lady Asha was now Queen Asha. The whole of Westeros on display with their full strength to remove a false king.

They had sent terms to Tommen Waters and his court, demanding their surrender and for him to relinquish his throne, a combined message from Sansa and Stannis promising mercy if they did so. They had given the false king two days to answer before they began to attack the city properly, and there was little over three hours left before the deadline and Jon was getting antsy.

He did not like the wait before battle, not when he knew Sansa was just a week or so away from the city with her guard, he did not wish for her to arrive before the city had fallen, did not want her so close to a battle, it was bad enough that Arya was in the camp, and at least she was able to defend herself with her sword. And it was not uncommon for a siege to last months at a time, although from the reports they had received the city would be starving long two months were gone.

Jon had no desire for the siege to last months, and not just because it put his sisters in danger if it did. He wanted to go home. To go back to the North, and Winterfell, and the home he and Tormund were building in the Dreadfort.

After Sansa’s name-day, Theon had returned to help Tormund, and had taken with him some new people to join the household. Apparently, when she had sent the pardons to those men who had deserved them on the Wall, she had also invited any who wished to find work in the North to Winterfell. And quite a few had come, some had found employment in Winterfell itself or with other Northern Lords, but a few had waited to offer Jon their service.

Edd and Grenn and Pyp, along with a half dozen others, all of them had waited until he was able to offer them employment, had claimed that they trusted him to be fair and kind far more than any other lord. He supposed for them it was more of a devil they knew situation, but he was honoured nonetheless.

Of course he had made sure that all of them were aware and comfortable with the fact that one of the Free Folk would be their lord, but many of them had already been won over, either during the War for the Dawn, or when Jon had died and they had seen how Tormund had genuinely cared for him. Only one man had found that unacceptable, and so with very little regret Jon had informed him he did not have a place in his household. He had no wish to employ men who would insult his husband or stepdaughters.

He was dragged from his thoughts of home by a commotion outside his tent, one which he went to investigate, half expecting Arya to be a part of it. If it was Winterfell then it would be certainty that Arya would be a part of any commotion, but this one appeared to just be between two squires from the Vale.

It was not overly surprising, when he thought about it, Arya had been sticking closer to Lady Brienne than before, what with the lady all but pining now her love was gone from their camp.

The Lannister forces had returned to the Westerlands, under the command of acting Lord Paramount Jaime Lannister, the man kept in line with the knowledge that Tommen and Myrcella’s lives depended on him keeping his oaths. He had been informed that he was expected to return to Kings Landing for the coronation in the Grand Sept, and to swear fealty to the King in front of the Court, as well as to have his White cloak stripped from him and position officially confirmed. If the Kingslayer timed it well enough he would likely miss his family’s trials and not have to bear witness to any executions.

Jon didn’t blame him, he still had nightmares about his own family’s deaths, and he had not even borne witness to them, he could only imagine how much worse it would be if he had.

Another shout went up through the camp, this one drawing his attention for far longer, for it was more important: the gates of the city had opened and a lone rider sent out, the white flag of parlay flying above them.

They needed to show a display of force, of intimidation, to ensure that when the envoy returned he would report that the city’s chances were low indeed.

Jon would have accompanied their show anyway, but the display meant he had to wear more than just his armour. Over the top of the armour that had once been Robb’s he had a surcoat that Sansa had made him, embroidered with the white and red wolf of his and Tormund’s new House. He knew Arya had her own, smaller surcoat that was identical to the one their father had owned, and that she would be wearing it as the representative from House Stark.

He knew each of the men and women in the line up, was allies with them all and friends with many of them, but still they were intimidating to his eyes. The sheer number of different sigils and colours, the weaponry on display, and the knowledge that such an alliance had never before existed. Not even when Aegon the Conqueror had first landed on the shores of Westeros had so many Great Houses banded together to remove a threat.

They held their horses steady and waited for the envoy to speak first, another show of dominance and power. Even the direwolves waited patiently by his and Arya’s sides, a feat indeed for Nymeria was hardly patient even on good days.

“In the name of King Tommen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Defender of the Realm,” The envoy, one of the Kingsguard if the white cloak around his shoulders was any indication, eventually said with a hint of disdain in his voice. “Kings Landing accepts your terms, we surrender.”

He dismounted from his horse and knelt before them, seemingly uncaring of the way his white cloak dragged in the mud that had been churned up by many horses and their riders.

Jon had barely heard the words however, the sight of the white cloak filled him with a rage he saw reflected on Arya’s face, they had both heard Sansa’s tale of what had happened to her. Of what the Kingsguard had done, how they had stripped and beaten her in front of the court on the orders of the bastard King Joffrey. It was so very tempting to ride forwards and remove the man’s head, to stain his white cloak red with his life blood, to tear out his throat with his own teeth.

His thoughts must have been picked up by Ghost, for his ever loyal wolf bared his teeth in a silent snarl, that likely would have grown worse had there not been movement from their line.

Stannis Baratheon rode forward a few paces, his back straight and his face solemn, looking more a king than Jon had seen him before.

“We accept your surrender. Go back to the Red Keep and inform the former King that the gates should be opened, the bells rung, and the Court assembled on the Steps of Baelor at sunrise tomorrow. Provided no treachery occurs we swear no harm shall come to the people.”

* * *

They celebrated well that night, even while making their preparations to claim the city properly. They might, perhaps have given the false king too long to prepare his home, but with the end in sight they wanted the chance to celebrate beforehand.

Jon had ended up with Edmure again, drinking and exchanging tales in a way that was reminiscent of their anticipation of the War for the Dawn to begin, only this time they were joined by Arya.

“Arya, no.” Jon laughed, holding the jug of ale out of her reach, “Brynden and Sansa will have my hide like the Red Kings of old if I let you get drunk. Have fruit juice instead, I know the Reach brought some with them.”

Arya pouted at him, in a move that likely would have worked were it for anything else, before turning it on her uncle to try and persuade him instead.

Edmure laughed and ruffled her hair, “There is no chance in the Seven Hells I’m letting you drink, little wolf. Your mother would haunt me for all eternity if I did, on top of Brynden giving me that disappointed look of his.”

Brynden’s disappointed look was something of a legend among his nieces and nephews, the way Edmure told it once it had even made Lady Catelyn duck her head in shame. Of course, it was aimed at some of them more often than others, with Rickon seeming to be the most common recipient after causing chaos.

His little sister sat back down with a huff, as though she was giving up her attempt at drinking, but Jon was not fooled, he knew she was merely biding her time and thought it was probably better to get her distracted.

“So Edmure, we’ve heard a few stories about Robb’s campaign, but I was wondering if you knew any others?”

From the way Arya’s eyes lit up, Jon knew he had chosen the right topic for a distraction.

“Well, there is one you might like.” Edmure leaned back with a grin and took a swig of his drink, “It involves Greywind and a dress Cat was particularly fond of.”

Arya leaned forwards eagerly and looked at her uncle imploringly, “I haven’t heard this one before go on, please.”

“Certainly, here we go, let’s see. My father had no particular love for the wolves, or wish for them to be inside Riverrun, but who was he to deny the king anything? Especially not when the king was Cat’s little boy? So, he put up with it, with the fur and the footprints and the constant scent of wet dog. Cat refused to let Greywind into her chambers, but of course, that only made them more attractive for him, in the way that refusing to let Sansa do something makes her ten times likelier to do it.”

Both Arya and Jon laughed at that, it was true that Sansa had a stubborn streak as wide as the Kings Road was long, and that to deny her something was to make her want it with all her might, a trait she and Robb had shared.

“Anyway, that wolf has always been far sneakier than you would expect from a creature the size of a small pony, and one day while we were all in one of those rather boring meetings he snuck into Cat’s rooms. And once in there, decided that obviously it was the perfect place for a nap. He pulled a single dress out of Cat’s wardrobe, her only one really suited for the warmth of the South, and fell asleep curled up on it right in front of the doorway so all who entered could see him. There was no saving the dress in the end, the wolf hair was far too ingrained despite its many washes.”

Edmure took another drink and it was obvious from the way he sat back that he had finished the story, despite Jon suspecting there was more to it. Although, anything else likely was not suitable for Arya’s ears, she wouldn’t want to hear if her mother had been truly upset by such a thing.

“Now, little wolf.” Edmure gestured at Arya, “I think you owe me a story.”

* * *

They half expected some form of treachery from Cersei Lannister, even her own brother had warned them not to underestimate her, that she would have some sort of trick up her sleeve, one last bid for power.

And really, if she wanted to remove her enemies, their entrance to the city was the perfect time. It would remove the military minds, and leave behind only those of her opponents not versed in the art of warcraft.

They would not let her gain such a victory, not let her snatch it from them in this, that which should be their moment of triumph.

It had not taken long to come up with a plan, and as distasteful as Jon might have found it, it was a pragmatic decision.

They would be sending standard bearers in first, along with a small contingent of men, to clear any trap that might have been set. If Cersei Lannister had ordered men to wait just inside the gates as an ambush, then they would attack the guard first and give the rest of them the chance to mount a proper defence.

It was choices and plans like that which made Jon glad Tormund was not with them, his husband would have hated the thought of a group of men being deemed expendable for their lack of name, of being used to spring a trap because their parents had not owned land. But they had no other choice, not if they did not want to offer themselves up to treachery on a silver platter.

For the first few minutes it seemed like the Lannisters truly had surrendered, like Cersei had finally admitted defeat. Their men marched ahead through the streets, banners held proudly, crowds had gathered to watch them, lining the streets. More people than Jon had ever seen before, all gathered to witness their victory.

Jon was just passing under the gate when it began.

There was a terrible moment of silence, as thought the whole city held its breath, and then a horrifying sound. One that had those who had been at the Blackwater wheeling back as quickly as they could.

A roar, for it could be called nothing else, from deep underground, reverberating through the stone and the cobbles with a great rumble like the belly of some giant beast.

And then, as sudden as a lightning bolt, the road exploded in a wall of green flames, shards of rock flying everywhere.

The heat was intense, and blistering and the light blinding and-

The air was ripped from Jon’s lungs by the blaze, and shrapnel from the buildings grazed him, leaving him glad of the armour he was wearing.

He was thrown from his horse, hard enough that when he hit the stone of the street he could hear a sickening crack, and pain began to radiate up from his leg.

Jon could feel the skin on his face start to blister from the heat, could hear screams echoing from horses and men alike, and when the black began to take his vision his last sight was of a Targaryen banner illuminated by bright green flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think Cersei would just go quietly now did you?


	11. Arya

Arya had never been so thankful that her uncle had not let her get her way before. She had wanted to ride towards the front of the procession, had not really believed that Cersei Lannister would dare to break a surrender.

Had he listened to her, had she got her way, she would have been caught up in the blast of wildfire. She would have been burnt by the flames, or shredded by the shrapnel, or crushed by the panicking citizens of Kings Landing.

As it was, she was still injured, her hearing had been affected by the sound of the blast, and she had minor wounds on her face from flying shards of brick. She was lucky though; she had no burns and none of her injuries would even scar.

Not like Jon and Brynden.

Jon had been close enough to the heat of the blast to have terrible burns on his face, blistering the skin and leaving him in pain. He had been flung from his horse and broken his leg on the stone of the street, and been found unconscious from the pain, covered in a layer of dust and ash when they finally managed to venture to the site to assess their losses.

Brynden had lost an eye. It had been taken out by a piece of wood flung from the houses destroyed by the explosion, one that had only struck him when he had turned to try and help those who had been caught up in the blast.

With both of them out of commission, so many of the lords had looked to her for guidance. They had turned to her name, and the sigils on her clothes for direction of how they were going to proceed.

And Arya was proud to say she had done her best to guide them. She had channelled every bit of her father, her mother, of Robb and Sansa and Jon, of Brynden and Edmure, and even a little bit of Lysa; she had channelled her family and ordered the Lords as she thought they would have done.

Edmure had helped her, as had Lord Royce, but even they had looked to her for the final decision on what should be done.

She had ordered men to gather the wounded, no matter their citizenship she order that they be cared for; and yet more men she gathered up and led through the streets of Kings Landing towards the Red Keep itself.

Cersei Lannister would know what her actions had wrought, would know the terror of a wolf’s snarl, would know why wolves did not perform in the circus.

She had the support of Ser Davos as well, for while Stannis Baratheon was too injured, his Hand was not, and Ser Davos was happy to work with her while directing the Southern troops.

The streets of the city were abandoned, none of the smallfolk who had come to bear witness remained, they had fled in fear of more wildfire hidden beneath the streets. A fear Arya did not blame them for, for it was a fear of her own, but they could not give up so close to victory.

Ash had settled in her hair, and in the fur of Nymeria, making her look more like Ghost than herself, but Arya cared little for removing it. Let the Lannisters see the reason for her wrath.

She was at the Steps of Baelor, almost to the Red Keep, when the Lannister banners fell from its walls, leaving behind the Tyrell and Baratheon banners.

It was not reassuring; Arya was still not convinced that the whole thing had not been a power grab by the Tyrells. That they had not orchestrated it to gain the Iron Throne.

There was no resistance, however, as they approached the gates to the Keep, gates that were flung open as her men blew their war horns in warning.

A line of nobles filtered out, at their head was Tommen Waters, his arm wrapped around the elbow of a beautiful girl who must have been Margaery Tyrell, if Sansa’s stories were to be believed.

Tommen was the only one with Lannister blood who was not in the grip of guards, the others had all been strong armed by guards in green and gold, the Tyrells had obviously decided it was the perfect time to show their true colours.

Or at least, reveal yet another layer of them.

Arya held no sympathy for any of them, the dishevelled appearance of the Lannisters merely made her satisfied in a strange way. And as for the Tyrells, their smug smiles ignited her rage once more, for who were they to look as such when her family were injured?

“Kneel.” She commanded, running a glare over the assembled nobility, “Kneel and be thankful that my merciful sister is the one with the crown.”

None of the nobles moved, they just stared at her with shock, and in some cases contempt.

Arya’s lips pulled back in a snarl and her next words were echoed by a growl from Nymeria.

“I said KNEEL!”

* * *

There was something especially satisfying about knowing the enemies of her family were held in the same cells her father had spent his last days in. In the knowledge that their war had come full circle, and that none would dare to try and demand the release of Tywin and Cersei Lannister, nor avenge their deaths.

Even Jaime Lannister would not try and defend his twin after she used wildfire with the knowledge that the citizens of Kings Landing would be caught up in the blast.

There was also something especially enjoyable about being one of the highest ranking people in the Red Keep, no doors were barred to her and even better was that other than ensuring the men under her command were settled in, which she had largely delegated to her Uncle Edmure and Lord Royce, she had no real responsibilities. It meant she was able to explore the Red Keep as well as visit whoever she wanted.

And Arya took great advantage over that.

Technically those held in the Black Cells were not supposed to receive visitors, but she really wanted the chance to speak with Tywin Lannister, a chance which her brother and uncle had prevented her from taking beforehand.

She took Nymeria with her to the cells, she trusted that her direwolf would be able to protect her just as well as guards would. Besides, she wanted to see if there would be any fear in Tywin Lannister’s eyes when he beheld a full grown direwolf.

Arya grinned to herself as the door to the Lord’s cell was unlocked for her, and made sure to adopt the voice she had used as his cupbearer.

“Who’s there?” The Old Lion barked hoarsely; his face screwed up in a defence against the light spilling into the cell.

“It is good to see you again, my lord.” Arya called out instead, and took a moment to savour the way his features filled with confusion.

“Nan? What-” His eyes must have adjusted for horror replaced the confusion and he cut himself off, “Oh.”

Arya’s grin widened, and she stepped into the cell so he could see her properly, “Oh indeed, my lord.”

“How did I not see this?” Lannister muttered, leaning his head against the stone wall in apparent despair, “I had Arya bloody Stark under my nose.”

“You saw what you wanted to see, and in your arrogance thought you had uncovered everything. You did not expect a wolf so you did not see a wolf.”

“What did Eddard Stark feed his children?” Lannister mused out loud, “To have gained such results from you all, there must have been something in the waters at Winterfell.”

Arya bared her teeth at him, “You discount the influence of my mother, Lord Tywin. ‘Family, Duty, Honour.’ Those were her words and they are far more powerful than yours.”

Tywin Lannister scoffed, although whether it was at the thought of Catelyn Stark having a significant influence on his humiliating defeats or the idea that honour and duty were more important that power, Arya did not know.

“You don’t believe me?” Arya said with deliberate lightness, “Should I remind you perhaps that we managed to defeat you without compromising our honour, because it was our duty to our people? Whereas your son and grandchildren are going to be working to try and regain the honour of the Lannister name for decades to come.”

“And what is honourable about kidnapping someone from their tent to force a surrender?” Lannister shot back, “If the honourable Eddard Stark had seen his children do such a thing then he would be so disappointed.”

Arya did not show that he had hit a nerve, she did worry sometimes what her father would have thought of their actions, and to hear someone say he would have been disappointed was hurtful. She injected steel into her spine and her voice, the ice in her blood filling every movement.

“Better to steal one man from his tent than lead thousands to their deaths. Better to take one man and let his heir order surrender than spill yet more blood. Better to take one man that break our oldest laws.”

Arya watched his face as he scrambled to find some way to defend his actions, but she had no desire to hear such weak defences. There was no way he could defend the Red Wedding, and everyone knew it.

She left the cell with a hint of a smile, she knew he would spend his time overthinking their conversation, that he would go to his death thinking of ways he could have ‘won’.

Perhaps Bran was right when he had said that not all vengeance needed to be physical, she had actually quite enjoyed this mind game.

* * *

Maester Pycelle was unpleasant and made chills run down Arya’s spine. She did not like the way he looked at her, something lascivious in his eyes. But he was the head of the maesters in the Keep, and so she had to deal with him.

Brynden was healing well, his wound had been relatively clean and they had managed to get him help before any complications had occurred. He had been released from the maesters’ halls fairly quickly, and had been rather annoyed when he found out some of what Arya had been up to in his absence.

She had received quite the lecture from him, although it had not been as bad as the one Edmure had received, considering he was supposed to be the responsible adult in charge of her care while Brynden was unable to be. Brienne had mysteriously disappeared for the lecture, and had taken great pains to avoid Brynden, which Arya really couldn’t blame her for.

Jon on the other hand, he was still under the maester’s care, his leg had been badly broken and had to be kept entirely still for fear of it healing wrong, but in spite of that Arya had been reassured that it should not have an impact on his ability to walk. She had visited him a few times, and once reassured he was no longer in danger had found the sight of his face covered with a green poultice rather amusing.

“Lady Arya.” Pycelle crooned, and Arya had to resist a shudder.

“Princess.” She corrected, she might not like her title overmuch, but it was another shield against the man, “My title is Princess. What was it you wanted maester?”

“I was wondering, a passing thought really, if you knew when the trials would be held? Only, I’m sure you know it is not our way to hold prisoners indefinitely.”

He spoke to her as though she was a mere child, as though she was ignorant of how the world worked, or like she was some kind of lawless savage.

“The trials will be held when my sister, the Queen of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands, arrives. She has as much right to preside over the trials as King Stannis does.” Arya’s voice was as cold as the Wall. “Perhaps you can answer a question for me, where is Lord Varys?”

The maester took a step back from her, perhaps a little shocked by her tone and the way her hand was longingly caressing the hilt of Needle.

“Lord Varys? He disappeared from the city shortly before the armies returned from the Wall, my princess.”

Well that was worrying, and something she would need to pass on to Sansa and Brynden, if the Spider had disappeared, who knew which master he was now serving, who knew who he was funnelling information to?

“Thank you.” Arya said tightly, her mother had always insisted they keep to their courtesies even when the person they were speaking to was odious, “Now my brother is expecting me. so good day to you.”

She channelled Robb as she walked away, that sense of knowing exactly his place in the world he had always exuded and that had caused people to think twice about questioning him. It worked as maesters, nobles, and servants alike all moved out of her way.

Jon was staying in a small room off of the main halls, partially for his name and partially because Ghost had refused to leave his side and had caused a disturbance otherwise.

“You know, your husband is never going to let you out of his sight. And I doubt Sansa will either.” Arya said as greeting as she entered the room.

Jon grimaced at her, “You don’t need to sound so cheerful about it! I am injured you know.”

Ghost let out a huff at Jon’s complaints, and Arya was almost certain she saw him roll his eyes.

“Stop being so dramatic, it’s not like you’ve died again.”

She had been terrified when the blast had first gone off, and when they had found his unconscious body, but now that he was out of danger and generally complaining about being on bed rest the fear had been replaced with amusement.

“Be as that may, you might still have a little sympathy for me.” He pouted, “It is boring being stuck in here.”

Arya smirked at him, “I could bring you some needlework to do, I’m sure learning a new skill would keep your mind occupied and maybe it would distract Sansa enough that she wont smother you when she arrives.”

Her brother scowled at her and lifted a small cushion in his hand, and then, still lying on the bed, aimed it at her. She darted out of its path with a burst of laughter and grinned at him cheekily.

“Is that a no to the needlework then?”

* * *

If Arya was being completely honest, the only part of the Red Keep she was actually pleased to see was the gardens. She hated the Keep for what it represented for her family, but the only memory the gardens held for her was the time her father had taken the afternoon off from his duties and had a picnic there with her and Sansa.

“Prince Oberyn.” Arya nodded to the man her uncle was so affectionate with as she entered the gardens and spotted him lounging on a bench in the bright noonday sun.

“Princess,” He nodded back with an easy grin, “Have I not told you to drop my title? I feel like I should have.”

“I believe you told my sister.”

“Ahh. Well please, drop the title, princess.”

Arya sat next to him with a smile, “If you do the same.”

“That will be no hardship. It feels like very little will be a hardship now vengeance is in my reach and I am warm again.” He leant his head back and basked in the sunlight.

Arya’s lips twitched at the mention of the warmth, “Was Winterfell too cold for the famed Red Viper?”

“You say that, little Stark.” He responded in an equally teasing tone, “But I would like to see your icy blood among the sands of my homeland.”

She let out a light laugh, “Well we should test that at some point, I’m sure Uncle Brynden would be pleased to escort me.”

“I’m sure he would. How is he doing? I know he was injured by the blast, but my nephew has had need of me.”

Arya smiled as she spoke, “He keeps walking into things at the moment, because he is still getting used to his change in depth perception.”

It had been quite amusing at times, as he had managed to misjudge doorways and the position of various pieces of furniture, although it had been less funny when he had nearly tumbled down some stairs. Edmure had assigned a guard to remain by Brynden’s side until they were sure he had adjusted properly to his impaired vision, which he had taken without complaint.

“Ah,” Oberyn tilted his head back to look at her, “Was there a reason you came to the gardens? I’m sure it wasn’t to talk with an old man.”

“You aren’t that old.” She protested, and then looked down slightly ashamed, “I’m avoiding the Tyrells. Lady Margaery keeps asking me about Sansa.”

It was irritating really, why couldn’t the former queen just wait until Sansa arrived? Why did she have to keep trying to ask Arya about her sister?

As though summoned by her thoughts, one of the guards ran up to her, one with the falcon of House Arryn on his breast, he was out of breath but his words were still entirely understandable.

“Princess Arya! Banners have been spotted, my lady. Queen Sansa has arrived!”


	12. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so Sansa might be a little different in this chapter because she is dealing with a lot being back in Kings Landing and the Red Keep, I've tried to show her conflicting emotions about this

They had seen the plume of green, the acrid smoke that rose high above the city, even before they could see the city itself.

Sansa’s heart had dropped into her stomach at the sight, she remembered all too well the screams that had come during the Battle of the Blackwater, the mangled corpses that had littered the bay for weeks afterwards. The thought of her family, of Jon and Arya and her uncles, of all of them caught up in the blast filled her with absolute terror.

She couldn’t lose them, not when they were so very close to peace. Couldn’t lose them when they were so close to avenging their fallen and securing their freedom from the Iron Throne.

She had desperately wanted to rush to their side, to work their horses to collapse so that she could just know whether or not they were safe, whether or not she had lost yet more of her kin.

But they couldn’t. Not least because if the lords who had travelled with the army were dead, they would be travelling into the clutches of the Lannisters. They had needed to send scouts on ahead to find out the exact circumstances they were riding into.

The sheer relief she felt when the scouts returned, when they said that the Lannister banners were gone from the walls of the city, when they said that they had been replaced by the direwolf and the stag. The relief had been all but tangible, and it had been reflected on the faces of everyone else, even Queen Selyse had smiled at the news of her husband’s victory.

But Sansa couldn’t help but notice that the scouts brought back no news of who had survived; a lack of news that kept the kernel of fear in her heart as strong as it had been when the smoke first filled the sky.

* * *

Her Uncle Edmure had ridden out to meet them, to inform her of the goings on inside the city, and when Sansa heard how Arya had demanded the full surrender her heart filled with pride in her little sister. She could only imagine the look on Cersei’s face when she was ordered to kneel by a child.

She was worried for Arya though, and what effect the city would have on her, for Arya certainly held few if any good memories of it. Sansa was worried the being surrounded by so many bad memoires would undo the healing that Arya had undertaken since they were reunited and she no longer had to worry about crossing Westeros alone.

The city brought back painful memories as she rode through it, of the riots, of the beatings, of the abuse she had been subjected to. Her back started to ache with phantom pain, and she could feel her mouth pulling into the placating smile she had worn near her entire time as a _guest_ of the Lannisters.

She forced her face back into the expression Rickon had deemed her ‘queen’s face’. An expressionless face, one that made her appear as cold as the lands she called home.

The streets were full of people, as desperate looking and half-starved as they had been the last time she had been in the city. It still shocked her how uncared for the people of Kings Landing were, especially when she contrasted it to the amount of time, effort and money she had put in to ensuring the people of the North were cared for during the Winter.

The Red Keep loomed before her like a blight against the sky before too long, and certainly before she was prepared for it to. In all truth she wanted to enter the keep about as much as she wanted to face down a wild board with only a hair pin to defend herself.

But duty demanded she enter the castle and so she would.

A parade of nobility stood to greet her and Queen Selyse. Their outfits either shockingly practical or hilariously impractical, creating quite the tableau.

Baratheon stood at the entrance to the Keep, he was heavily leaning on wooden crutches but otherwise looked mostly uninjured, especially when compared to the people around him.

Aegon Targaryen had burns all over one side of his face, and half his hair had been burned off, and from the way he was standing it was likely he was injured all down one side of his body. To his side stood

And then, her heart clenched as she beheld Jon and Brynden and Arya. Arya had a few mostly healed cuts on her face, but the other two, the other two made her breath catch in her throat.

Brynden had a cloth bound around his head, covering the pit where an eye had used to reside, and Jon was leaning heavily on him, with bandages wrapped around so much of his form.

Everyone other than Baratheon bowed or curtseyed as they dismounted, and Sansa noted the way her brother flinched as he did so, if the bandages hadn’t already made it obvious that he was injured, the way he struggled to regain his balance after a shirt bow surely did.

She wanted to rush to his side and berate him for being so careless with his health again, but the social niceties had to be observed first.

“Queen Sansa, welcome to Kings Landing.” Baratheon said in a stilted tone his words obviously highly practiced.

He kissed her hand as she bowed her head slightly, “Thank you for your gracious welcome, King Stannis. And congratulations on winning your crown.”

He released her hand and allowed her to move on to the next person as he in turn greeted his wife with a display of courtly manners that he must have been reminded to be used by Ser Davos.

“Might I offer my condolences, Lord Targaryen,” Sansa said softly, “On the loss of Lord Connington. I know he was as a father to you.”

For all she had not liked Lord Connington she would not wish the loss of a father on anyone.

“Thank you, Queen Sansa.” He replied softly, “I shall endeavour to do his legacy justice.”

“I’m sure you will.” She clasped his hands gently, and aimed what she hoped was a kind rather than pitying smile his way.

She moved swiftly on to Ser Davos, who greeted her with a fond smile. Sansa liked Ser Davos, for the way he was so very gentle and kind with Rickon and Bran, for the stories Shireen told of him, and for the way he reminded her almost of her own father with his gruff kindness.

“I am pleased to see you uninjured, Ser.”

“And I am pleased to be so, Your Grace.” His smile turned slightly mischievous, “Although, it is luck and nothing more that kept me this way. And I am sure your sister would have taken the city even if I had been incapacitated.”

Sansa smiled back, she did not doubt his words, “But still, I find I must thank you for making her task easier.”

Ser Davos let out a laugh that many would insist was inappropriate for such a serious occasion, but Sansa did not care that it was a breach in protocol, for it was a kind laugh, the type that the Red Keep had seen too little of in its history.

“Go and greet your family, Your Grace. I know they have missed you, just as much as I am sure you have missed them.”

Sansa had no trouble taking that advice, and it seemed Arya had no compunctions about decorum, for she flung herself at Sansa as soon as she was in range to do so.

“I hear you took the city singlehandedly.” Sansa gently teased and enjoyed the eyeroll she received in response.

“It wasn’t singlehandedly. I had some help.”

“Aye, while the rest of us were laid up with injuries the fierce warrior took the city and made the inhabitants of the Keep kneel at her feet. I wouldn’t be surprised if a ballad was composed in her honour.” Brynden interjected warmly.

Sansa smiled at Arya’s grumbling and pressed a kiss to her brow before releasing her so she could greet her brother properly.

“I am very close to not letting you out of my sight again Jon.” She said as she pulled him into a gentle hug, “Seeing as you seem to get injured every time I do.”

Jon grimaced at her, “You might have to compete with Tormund over that. I predict that I will be bundled up in blankets and furs like an invalid the moment we return home.”

Sansa held out her arm so he could lean on her and take some more of the weight off of his injured leg.

“You may very well be right, dear brother. Now, which of you is going to show me to my chambers? I find I am in dire need of a bath.”

Now she knew they were safe, now she knew the extent of their injuries, Sansa was able to relax. Something that she would sorely need in the next few days as she had much to deal with while in the city.

* * *

“Have you come to say goodbye, Little Dove?” Cersei crooned; her voice sickly sweet to hide the sharp blade of her words. “Or perhaps you came to gloat.”

Sansa could almost feel herself retreating back into the retiring girl she had once been, “I came here because I thought you might like some conversation, given you have been down here alone for over a week.”

Cersei smiled at her in the dim lighting, “How thoughtful of you, Little Dove. Tell me, did you take my advice and use your most powerful weapon to get all those big strong men to help you? Did you reward your uncle by spreading your legs?”

Sansa raised an eyebrow coldly, “I am not you. I am not a whore, paid for with a crown. These men fought for me because I am their rightful queen and they believed in me, or because I was able to offer them the power they desired.”

The former queen’s smile turned pitying, “Ah, Little Dove, still so naïve. They’ll come for their payment in the end. No man does anything for free, they will expect you to repay them for their help, and what better way than by asking for your body?”

“My siblings will kill anyone who even dares think such a thing.” Sansa stated confidently. She knew that were such a thing to be mentioned it would become a competition between Jon, Arya and Rickon for who could kill the offender first.

“You might think that, sweet girl, but brothers will always let you down in the end.”

Cersei sounded like she was speaking from experience, like she had been let down one too many times by her brothers, and Sansa couldn’t help but pity her slightly.

“You know, Ser Jaime was almost back to you when we captured him again, and he made a deal with me in exchange for a promise that you and your father would not die by fire.”

Sansa did not know how to interpret the emotions that flashed over Cersei’s face, she could only see that they were conflicted indeed.

“But he did not try and save my life. Nor did he save the life of our son, a disappointment as ever.”

Sansa did not know how to respond to that, so she tried a different train of conversation.

“I wanted to say that I am sorry that you lost Joffrey. I know you loved him very much.”

Cersei barked out a bitter laugh, “No you aren’t. You hated my sweet boy, and probably celebrated when he died.”

“I am not sorry he is dead.” Sansa said carefully “Only that you had to suffer the pain of losing him.”

“He was the most like Robert of any of my children.” Cersei leant against the wall and spoke as if they were enjoying tea rather than in a cell, “For all I tried to teach him that he must never hurt his wife, he preferred to follow the example set by the man who was his father only in name. But he was still my firstborn, my baby, and now you are going to take my other children too and leave them without the protection of their birth right.”

Sansa swallowed slightly and perched on the bench next to Cersei.

“Tommen and Myrcella will be safe, you have my word on that. They are to be legitimised as Lannisters, and Myrcella’s betrothal will remain if she wishes it to. As for Tommen, he will be fostered at Winterfell until he is of age, at which point he will take the heirship of Casterly Rock.”

It seemed her words had actually shocked Cersei, for the former queen took a while to respond to her, so long that Sansa nearly left the cell.

“Why?” Cersei finally asked, in a small voice, “Why would you not treat them as the threats that they are?”

“Because they are children.” Sansa said truthfully. She stood and just before exiting the cell turned and looked Cersei Lannister directly in the eye, “Because I know what it is liked to be punished for m family’s sins, and I would never wish that on anyone.”

She left the cell and let the door clang shut, feeling lighter than she had when she entered.

* * *

“I would like to meet with some of the palace staff.” Sansa announced to King Stannis, she did not ask, for now more than ever she was aware of their positions.

He merely inclined his head in acknowledgment, she knew he did not care for the running if the Keep and that he passed that duty on to his wife and his Hand.

“Ser Davos will be able to assist you in the endeavour, Queen Sansa.” He said, “He has the best knowledge of the current staff.”

Sansa inclined her head back, careful not to make the gesture any deeper than his own and thus imply subservience, “Thank you, King Stannis. I will take my leave now, my uncle will take over the negotiations for the rest of the day.”

Brynden had far greater knowledge than she over the needs of the Riverlands and so he would be the best by far to negotiate on their behalf, especially when the majority of the stuffy lords on the council would talk over her to him anyway. At least half their meetings were taken up by her reminding the lords that she was the one with the crown and the power, not her male relatives.

Ser Davos left the room with her, and started to lead her through the corridors of the Red Keep towards the lower levels.

“Was it someone in particular you wished to speak with, Your Grace?” Ser Davos asked conversationally as he nodded to a maid that scurried out of their way.

“I was hoping to speak to my former handmaiden.” Sansa answered honestly, “She was an ally while I was trapped here, and I wish to repay her friendship.”

“That is an admirable aim, Your Grace.” Ser Davos sounded almost fatherly, “I would be happy to assist you in completing it.”

By that point they had passed the kitchens, and were at the entrance to a small hall filled with tables. It was filled with maids and manservants all eating their midday meal and light chatter filled the air.

Sansa anxiously ran her eyes over the women gathered in the servants’ halls, it felt wring to disturb their meal, but it was her best chance of finding the one she was looking for.

Her gaze caught on a few women with dark hair, but all of them were too cowed to be Shae. It wasn’t until someone caught sight of her at the entrance, causing all the maids to rise and curtsey that Sansa found her.

Shae stood by the fireplace, her face unchanged despite the year that had passed since Sansa had last seen her. And she was so pleased to see that Shae was unchanged, for she had worried Shae would be punished for her disappearance.

She swept through the hall towards Shae, ignoring the bobbing curtseys of the others, her eyes only affixed upon the only person in the whole of Kings Landing to be her friend without ulterior motive.

Quite without thinking about it she flung her arms around Shae, she did not care that it was not the done thing, she had missed Shae so very much that she could not help herself.

Shae hugged her back, her arms tight and comforting.

“My lady, or should that be my queen?”

Sansa stepped back slightly so she could look at Shae directly, “It is just Sansa, for the role you played in my escape, and the aid you offered while I was trapped here.”

Shae smiled at her; a smile Sansa had not realised she had missed until she beheld it again. She threaded Shae’s arm through her own, as they had used to walk all those months ago, and started to lead her from the room.

“Would you accompany me to my chambers? I should like a chance to catch up with you, and my family would like the chance to meet the only person who tried to protect me while I was here.”

Shae curled her hand around Sansa’s arm, “It would be my pleasure, my lady.”

* * *

It was quite strange, being the one to send the invitations to tea, rather than the other way around. It was nice though, the power it gave her reminded her that she was no longer a hostage.

Her chambers had their own terrace, a pretty thing with honeysuckle twinned around the columns and a white silk awning to keep off the worst of the sun. Sansa was thankful for the awning, for she had forgotten quite how hot Kings Landing could be and refused to wear the light silk dresses that were the fashion.

She had invited Arya to join her, but her sister had declined almost before Sansa had finished inviting her. Not that she was surprised of course, Arya had been avoiding the Tyrells the entire time she had been in Kings Landing, if the rumours Shae passed on were true.

“Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery, how good it is to see you again.” Sansa smiled graciously from her chair in the sun.

“Queen Sansa.” Margaery swept into a graceful curtsey, “I am so pleased to see that you are well, and dare I say it flourishing in your new position.”

Lady Olenna huffed and pressed a dry, papery kiss to Sansa’s cheek.

“Yes, the crown suits you child. And it seems to have suited the Tullys very well as well.”

Sansa did not like what the lady was implying, but she held her tongue. She did not care to get into an argument with Lady Olenna, not when she had just been an instrumental part in removing Olenna’s granddaughter from the throne.

She smiled tightly at the lady instead, “Thank you, for your kind words. I trust my people have been kind to you.”

“Oh yes.” Margaery soothed, “They have been most kind and gallant, enough so that I do wonder where those tales of Northerners being brutes came from.”

Sansa poured them all a cup of tea, a fragrant Riverlands blend, and allowed a bloodthirsty smile to briefly replace her normal genial smile.

“That is because you have yet to see them in battle. Lemon cake?”

Margaery took one of the offered lemon cakes with a slightly shocked expression, perhaps she had expected Sansa to remain as quiet as she had before. Perhaps she had thought Sansa’s soft-spokenness was her personality, rather than a defence mechanism.

Lady Olenna barked out a harsh laugh, “I had wondered whether they had crowned a wolf or a fish, but it seems this wolf has claws.”

Sansa knew she was boasting, but she could not help herself, “Claws I have used, my lady, I took the heads of the traitors Walder Frey and Roose Bolton myself, as is the way of the North.”

The sheer pleasure in her voice made even Olenna Tyrell blink in shock, but Sansa would not be cowed by the displeasure of Southern Nobility again.

She took a sip of her tea and made a note to meet with Margaery again, only the next time without her grandmother present.

Sansa wasn’t sure what she would do if she caught the lady insulting her family again.

* * *

The bright sun and the gathered crowds reminded Sansa so much of the day she lost her father that she had to concentrate from being overwhelmed by the memories.

The leather of her outer bodice, and the heavy fabric of her dark grey gown went quite a way to reminding her of where she was, as did Lady’s warmth pressed against her leg and the weight of her crown across her brow. She had chosen her outfit deliberately, to remind the Southern Court that she was of the North, just as much as to remind herself that she was no longer a scared child.

Arya stood to one side of her, Brynden the other, she had refused to let Jon attend insisting he needed to keep his leg still as per the maester’s orders. She was still annoyed he had disobeyed to come and greet her.

From the presence of Ghost though, she was pretty sure that he was watching anyway.

There was something almost poetic about it, about being back on the Steps of Baelor for another trial, about witnessing the execution of those who had killed her family where it all began. For the first time she was almost sad Joffrey was already dead, if only because she would have liked to see his own head fall from his shoulders.

“Lord Tywin Lannister, you stand accused of the murders of Princess Elia Martell and her daughter, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, you stand accused of using unlawful brutality in your warfare, you stand accused of the pillaging of the Riverlands, of plotting to break Guest Right and plotting the murders of Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident, Lady Catelyn Stark, Lord Jon Umber, Lady Dacey Mormont, Ser Wendel Manderley, Lord Donnel Locke, Lord Owen Norrey, Lord Robin Flint, Lord Lucas Blackwood, and Ser Raynald Westerling. How do you plead?”

It was Sansa who read out the list of charges, one of the many decisions that had been made since her arrival in the city. They had determined she had the greatest right to it, as it had been her lands, her people who he had ordered destroyed most recently.

Her voice was high and clear, and rang through the air with a sense of finality. There was no way that the Lord of Casterly Rock was weaselling his way out of the charges and the consequences of his actions, not when he had managed to turn the whole of Westeros against him.

“You have no authority to question me. No law of this land beholds me to your judgement.” Tywin Lannister sneered, “I do not recognise your authority and refuse to answer your accusations.”

Sansa took a deep breath, they had prepared for that to be his answer, just as they had prepared for a multitude of others. She took hold of the sword that Arya had held for her, formed from Ice and found with a lion on its pommel in the Red Keep, its steel had sung to her and Arya when they found it, and it had not taken long for them to have a new hilt reforged for it.

It was fitting that Tywin Lannister would die on the same blade her father had, the blade he had tried to steal and claim for his own.

She put the tip to the stones and spoke in a clear voice that could engender no misunderstandings.

“As you will not defend yourself, I must find you guilty. In my own name, I, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, the Trident and the Vale, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm; sentence you to die. If you have any last words then I will hear them now.”

He was manhandled none to gently to his knees by Stark men who had been survivors of the Red Wedding and he spat on the floor before glaring up at Sansa.

“One day everything you have built will crumble to the ground around you, girl. And on that day, you will not be able to say no one warned you, and I shall laugh from whichever of the hells I am sent to.”

Sansa did not deign him with a response, she merely raised the blade and let it sink through his neck in a graceful movement born of long practice in Winterfell aiming at logs and training dummies.

His head fell to the floor with a spurt of blood that coated the stones beneath her feet, the copper tang in the air worse in the heat than it had been the previous times she had needed to do such a thing.

She stepped back to her previous position, uncomfortably aware of the blood that stained her skirts, but not allowing it to show on her face.

It was Cersei Lannister’s turn to be shoved forwards, close to the still cooling corpse of her father and face her trial.

“Dowager Queen Cersei of House Lannister, you stand accused of plotting to put a false king on the throne, of treason and adultery, of the unlawful arrest of Lord Eddard Stark which lead to his death, and of the use of wildfire after a surrender was issued, resulting in the deaths of Lord Jon Connington, Lady Melisandre of Ashaii and countless smallfolk. How do you plead?”

This time it was Stannis Baratheon who read out the charges, hatred infused in every word for the woman who had been his brother’s wife.

Despite being dishevelled, her hair in a simple braid instead of the elaborate styles she had always used, and wearing a plain gown instead of one thick with embroidery and embellishment, Cersei Lannister still looked as proud as ever. Sansa had sent the gown and the maid to help Cersei wash and dress herself, for she believed the former queen deserved to die with more dignity than afforded by a gown made rancid and ragged by a stay in the Black cells.

“I am the Queen! You cannot do this to me.” Cersei protested, “I am the mother of the true king, none of you my judge me.”

“Your child is a bastard born of incest, with as much claim on the throne as a Dothraki thrall. Do you have anything else to say in your defence, or shall we proceed with the sentencing?” Stannis said in an almost bored voice.

Cersei merely glared haughtily at the crowd and refused to deign the king with an answer, for her silence was answer enough.

“Then, Cersei of House Lannister, for your crimes against the Crown and the people of Westeros, I sentence you to die. If you have any last words then they will be heard.”

Cersei turned to look Sansa in the eyes, “Remember my lessons, Little Dove. And use them to keep my baby safe.”

She shrugged off the guards that came forward to make her kneel, proud to the last. Even kneeling on the stones, awaiting the blade to come and removed her head from her shoulders, Cersei Lannister looked a queen.

Sansa could not tear her eyes from her, from the woman she had once looked up to as a mother. She would not do either of them the indignity of looking away or flinching, she owed it to Cersei for the lessons she had been given.

The sword was swung in an arc by the executioner, and within the blink of an eye the lioness’ head was on the floor.

A strange sort of sorrow filled Sansa’s chest at the sight, at the final end of everything that had represented her childhood dreams.


	13. Jon

Jon was not too prideful to admit that Lady Olenna scared him slightly. Privately he thought the woman likely scared everyone slightly, and he knew for a fact that Brynden was apprehensive of her, although Sansa seemed to look upon her fondly.

He did not count Sansa though, she seemed to look upon most people fondly with a sort of reckless bravery more similar to Rickon and Robb than the rest of them. He was pretty sure Sansa would try and befriend a bear if given the chance.

He did, however, understand why Sansa had been enamoured with both of the younger of Lady Olenna’s grandchildren. Both were very pretty, and from what he had seen Lady Margaery was kind as well, just as Ser Loras was chivalrous.

Jon had to confess that he did find the Knight of the Roses very easy on the eyes, and knew that if he did not have Tormund, he likely would have laid his affections upon him for a short while.

“Tell me, Prince Jon, how are men like us treated in your home?” Ser Loras asked with something stronger than curiosity in his voice.

Jon tore his eyes away from the men training to look at the knight.

“In the North?”

Ser Loras nodded, a short, sharp thing that was somehow still graceful, “Yes, I heard you were married. To a man. How did the North take that?”

Jon thought hard on how to answer that question, was the knight wondering whether he could have married Renly Baratheon had the king allowed them, as Sansa had allowed him to marry Tormund? Did he wonder whether he would have escaped rumours and whispers had he been Northern instead of from the Reach?

“The first thing you must understand, is that the Faith of the Seven has never been a large part of Northern culture and the Old Gods have no concept of sin. They do not care for our actions, provided Guest Right is not broken and Kinslaying does not take place.” Jon explained slowly, “The second is that the North loves the Starks. We can do little wrong in most of their eyes, as has been true for the past eight millennia.”

The Tyrell knight nodded once more and gestured for Jon to continue.

“Both of these things meant that when my sister changed the laws to allow men to marry men, and women to marry women, there was little resistance. Aided, of course, by being announced just after taking back Winterfell and by having just avenged the Red Wedding.”

“But what of the Riverlands and Vale? They do not follow the Old Gods, nor do they worship the Starks, surely they did not accept it so easily?”

It was a fair question, and in truth they likely would not have had other factors not come into play.

“The Riverlands is close to worshiping the Starks, especially since Sansa broke the siege of Riverrun with the help of an army of Direwolves and had both hers and Robb’s wolves returned to her by the Old Gods. As for the Vale? They know that it would be ineffective to protest such a law, especially when it is not one that causes harm to anyone.”

Ser Loras looked at him searchingly, obviously trying to verify the sincerity of his words and Jon made sure his face was open and honest.

“It seems almost too good to believe.” The knight said quietly, “That you might live in the open instead of hiding from everyone. That you might declare your love so all might see it and not hide your sun from those who would seek to harm you.”

Pity stirred in Jon’s heart; he could hardly imagine having to conceal his love for Tormund.

“Well you shall have to come North at some point so that you might see for yourself.” Jon offered, inwardly snickering at the thought of the pretty knight meeting Tormund and the other Free Folk.

“Perhaps I will.” Ser Loras threw a rakish grin his way as he spoke his next words, “And perhaps your leg will be healed enough we might spar next time. I would like to test my skills against the claimed best sword in the North.”

* * *

Jon did not bother to knock before pushing open the door to the chamber Sansa had claimed, it wasn’t like his sister would be doing anything other than paperwork or sewing.

He immediately regretted that decision.

His sister, his sweet baby sister, was kissing someone. Was kissing someone with enough care that she did not notice his entrance!

And not just anyone, she was kissing someone that could only be Margaery Tyrell if the rather revealing green dress and brown curls were anything to go by.

Quite without his permission a shriek left his lips and his sister and Lady Margaery sprang apart with guilty expressions on their faces.

“Jon?” Sansa’s expression and tone were the same as the day he and Robb had found her trying on a pair of their breeches because she wanted to see what the fuss Arya was making about them was.

“I’ll come back later.” Jon managed to say in a strangled tone, “Leave you to your… whatever this is.”

His little sister had the audacity to let out a giggle, “Oh don’t be silly Jon. What was it you wanted to see me for?”

Jon struggled to remember for a moment why he had come to find Sansa, and then it hit him.

“Arya challenged Tyene to a spar, and I thought you might want to watch.”

Sansa sighed, “Are we going to need to have the discussion with Arya about not being invulnerable again?”

Lady Margaery let out a light giggle and Jon could not help but notice how she curled her hand around Sansa’s.

“The Princess sounds a little like Loras.”

Sansa turned to her… friend with the hint of a smirk playing around her mouth.

“She is. Only Arya doesn’t even bother pretending to play fair. And then acts surprised when people take offense to that.”

That was not an unfair description of Arya to be honest, only the Free Folk did not seem to take offense at her fighting style, and that was only because they did not follow the same set of rules as the Westerosi.

Sansa took hold of his elbow, “Well then, dear brother, if there is a diplomatic incident to sort out after this, better to be at the scene I suppose.”

It was nice to know he wasn’t the only pessimist in the family.

* * *

If there was one person Jon was not going to miss when they left Kings Landing, he could say with certainty it would be the man who was his half-brother but less of a sibling than even Theon.

He doubted he would ever truly get along with Aegon Targaryen for both of them saw the shades of others when they looked upon each other.

Jon saw Robb. Saw his true elder brother, the one who had held him close when he had a nightmare and who had never let him fall behind while they were playing in spite of Lady Catelyn’s disapproval.

Aegon saw Rhaenys. Saw the sister who was dead because their father chose to protect Lyanna Stark over his true wife.

There were too many ghosts, too many should have beens for them to have the relationship that would have existed had Rhaegar lived.

“How is your leg?” There was some concern in Aegon’s voice, although it was not as much as was usual for a family member.

Jon shrugged, “It is healing, slowly perhaps, but it is healing. The Maesters say I should be safe to travel soon.”

“Good. That’s good.”

An awkward silence fell over them both. Neither knew what to say, nor particularly wanted to start a conversation and yet they felt that they had to for their shared blood.

“Are you looking forwards to living on Dragonstone?” Jon said when the silence felt so great it would swallow him.

Aegon looked at him searchingly, perhaps wondering if Jon was jealous of his claim over the ancestral island.

“I am. Although I do wish Jon could have seen it with me. He deserved to retire somewhere he did not have to worry about keeping me from trouble. He should have had the chance to retire knowing his quest was complete.”

The death of Jon Connington; especially due to him placing himself between Aegon and the wildfire, suffering burns that were too great to be healed; was something that would likely pain Aegon for many years, the man being more a father to him than any other. And Jon knew the pain of losing a parent before their time, how it ached like little else.

“He was a good man.”

“That he was,” Aegon agreed, “And I shall endeavour to do him proud. I would make it so the name Targaryen is no longer viewed with fear and suspicion.”

They fell once more into silence after that proclamation and Jon pondered his words.

It would take a long while for the Targaryen name to be trusted, centuries even before they were no longer viewed as conquerors that brought madness with them wherever they went. It would take more than the actions of one man to erase the sins of the past.

“There will always be a place for you in Dragonstone, should you desire it.” Aegon finally said.

“And you will be welcome in the Dreadfort, should you desire it.” Jon replied, unable to think of anything else to say.

A moment’s more awkward silence and then they said their goodbyes.

They had nothing else to say.

* * *

Jon felt guilty that one of the reasons they were lingering so long in Kings Landing was to allow his broken leg to heal enough so it was not damaged by travel. He knew how the city wore on his sisters and was eager to return home, even if they would be exchanging friends for a new ward.

He took it upon himself to check on their new ward, both wanting to make himself useful and missing the antics of his little brothers.

“Lord Tommen.” Jon smiled kindly at the child who was once a king.

“Lord- I mean, Prince Jon.” Tommen bowed stiltedly to him, “Did you come to find me?”

Jon sat on one of the plush chairs dotted around the room, eager to take some weight off his still-healing leg.

“Aye, I came to see if you were well and check that you own clothes suitable for our journey to Winterfell.”

The former king’s eyes widened, “Is it very cold? In Winterfell?”

His question reminded Jon of just how young the child was, just a few months younger than Bran, not even ten years old yet.

“Do you recall how cold it was when you came to visit us a couple of years ago? Well it is even colder now sweetling, and like not to get much warmer for a while.”

He had not meant to use the endearment, it had just slipped out, and yet he could not hate himself for using it. Jon pitied Tommen Formerly of the House Baratheon, the child had lost near his entire family in two short years and had his whole world turned upside down, and now he was being sent to live with the people who had fought a war against his family.

“Oh.” Tommen was quiet for a moment, “Should I get my winter things? So you can see what I have?”

Jon nodded and watched as the child rushed to gather the scant clothing he had to face Winter. Personally, Jon doubted any of it would be suitable for the North but it would be a comfort for Tommen to bring some familiar items with him.

The child brought back an armful of fabrics in reds and burgundies, with little if any fur amongst them. Jon sorted through them quickly, not even considering anything made of silk as appropriate, keeping only the wools and heaviest of the velvets.

It was not a large pile that remained at all, and none of it would be suitable for snow or fog or heavy rain.

“I’ll make sure you are fitted with some more suitable attire before we leave.” Jon said absently, “You’ll need clothes of wool and fur and leather if you are to be comfortable in the North.”

“Oh.” Tommen said again, before moving closer to Jon with unashamed curiosity, “Can you tell me what its like, in the North? Only Mother didn’t let us see much of it last time.”

Jon smiled; the North was certainly something he could talk about for a while, especially if it served to soothe the fears of a scared child.


	14. Brynden

The news that Jon’s leg was healed enough to travel was bittersweet to Brynden. He wished to leave the cesspit that was Kings Landing, and yet he did not want to part from Oberyn.

A selfish notion, Brynden knew, for Oberyn deserved to go home and bask in the warmth of Dorne again, yet Brynden did not want him to leave. They had spent longer together than they ever had before, been together more openly than even Dorne allowed, and it would be bitter to give that up.

Bitter to, to separate Ellaria from his nieces, for the lady had taken over a mothering role for them both. Brynden knew that both Sansa and Arya would miss her kind presence and level head, and he was not too proud to admit he would miss her calming influence on Arya.

However, despite what Arya claimed, he was not brooding over their farewells. Even if she did keep comparing him to Jon when he was thinking about Tormund.

“You are brooding again.” Oberyn pointed out with a hint of laughter in his voice.

“I am not brooding. Merely, not looking forward to our upcoming separation.”

“Do not be sad, dear heart.” Oberyn said tenderly, “It shall not be long indeed before I make my way northwards again. After all, you Queen was so kind as to gift my daughters with the Twins and what kind of father would I be if I let them set up their household there without my support?”

Brynden smiled at that, for of course Oberyn would never let his daughters set up in a new land without him there to ensure their safety.

“I know, I have just got used to having you around.” He explained, “Winterfell will seem much more dour without your laughter and frankly loud sense of style.”

Oberyn barked out a laugh. “You are only jealous because my clothes are brighter than your hair.”

Brynden could not help but touch his greying locks at that statement, suddenly self-conscious about the dimming of their colour.

“Don’t look like that.” Oberyn said gently, reaching out to clasp Brynden’s hand in his own, “You look distinguished with the grey in your hair, and still as handsome as the day we met.”

“Well I suppose one of us has to be distinguished.” Brynden teased, “Seeing as you are likely to grow old as disgracefully as possible, if you even reach such an age.”

Oberyn stuck his nose up in the air and sniffed, “Well see if I miss you now. You have insulted me most grievously.”

There was only one real way to deal with Oberyn when he pretended to be insulted.

“Oh. No.” Brynden said as flatly as he could. “Whatever shall I do? I shall pine away in the knowledge that you have no kind thoughts of me.”

A beat or two of silence, and then they both started to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all.

Oberyn pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Brynden’s mouth. “I shall miss this, but you know I will be back as soon as Doran gets annoyed by me, or Ellaria wishes to see her Mormont beau again.”

“I shall expect you within a moon’s turn then, shall I dear one?”

Oberyn pouted at him, with a pout stronger than the one Rickon used when he wanted more dessert.

“That is unfair, my brother shall put up with my antics for at least three moons.”

Brynden smirked at the pout and the petulant tone of Oberyn’s voice.

“If you are sure. I think you need a proper send off though.”

Oberyn raised an eyebrow at him, “Oh, tell me more?”

He could do better than that, and if his movements helped stave off the knowledge that soon they would be parted, well only Brynden would know how the memories would sweeten those solitary moons.

* * *

It was an unfortunate fact that as Sansa’s Hand and as her unofficial guardian it was expected that Brynden would be the one to negotiate any marriage contracts.

Of course, all of this was in spite of the fact that were Sansa male she would be expected to arrange things herself.

It was equally unfortunate that to arrange a betrothal Brynden had to speak to Lady Olenna.

Technically any betrothal negotiation should have been taken to Lord Tyrell, but it was common knowledge that the real power in that family still rested in the Queen of Thorns’ hands. Power that was needed if they were to convince Mace Tyrell to accept the supposed indignities that would come from one of his sons becoming consort to the Queen of the Winter.

“I had wondered when I would be seeing you.” Lady Olenna said, perched in her chair like a king surveying his kingdom from his throne. “I would have been rather upset had you scurried off back to that frozen kingdom of your family’s without speaking to me.”

Brynden sat in the chair that was offered and smiled politely at the wizened old woman as tea was poured by an attendant.

“I would not dare dream of such a thing, Lady Olenna. Such rudeness would only be thought of by a lesser House.”

Point one to him.

Lady Olenna narrowed her eyes at him, “It seems that over the past year you have done very well for yourself, Ser Brynden. A niece for a queen, and nephews as Lords of the Vale and the Riverlands. Few have as many relative in positions of power as you do, and all of them are so very young.”

Brynden did not like what she was implying.

“Well some of us believe that family is far more important than anything else.” He smiled tightly. “Not pieces on a cyvasse board to be moved around at will.”

Lady Olenna pursed her lips, “Speak plainly, you must have come here for a reason other than conversation.”

“Your grandson, Ser Loras, I would offer him the troth of Queen Sansa.”

Lady Olenna huffed and took a sip of her tea as she peered at him over the rim with a piercing gaze.

“And there would be stipulations I assume. Concessions that we must make if Loras is to be granted such an honour.”

Brynden took a sip of his own tea, “Of course.”

He might not like playing the Game, but he could when need be, and even play it well when the situation demanded it as Minisa had taught him.

He could see Lady Olenna’s patience dwindle at his non-answer and as he refused to elaborate on it, instead sipping at his tea and examining the delicate pastries laid out before him.

“Well?” She eventually demanded, “What are these demands that your queen makes?”

Brynden took another drink, just to make her wait a moment more, before placing his teacup down with a very deliberate clink.

“Queen Sansa would ask that no marriage takes place before she turns eight and ten, she also states that any husband she takes will be a consort, not a king. Similarly, any children she and her husband might have will be named ‘Stark’, and she will keep her own surname.”

Every word was said matter of factly, every point precise. There would be no confusion in the business of negotiating a suitable betrothal, not when Sansa had been burned by betrothals before.

Lady Olenna took deep breath and Brynden braced himself for what was to come.

“You want my grandson to act as a queen? Why not just have your queen take a queen for herself, I’ve heard tell such queer things are normal now in the North.”

“I’m sure you understand that legitimate heirs are a necessity for any ruler. And try as they might no two women may make a babe, just as no two men might make a babe.”

A delicate snort escaped the lady’s lips. “And you think Loras might be able to give Queen Sansa heirs?”

Brynden smiled at her pleasantly, “I think Sansa would much rather wed Lady Margaery than Ser Loras, but to produce heirs is the duty of a monarch. Besides, Loras might quite like the freedom of the North, provided he is relatively discreet of course.”

He took a great deal of pleasure in the minute widening of Lady Olenna’s eyes, his words had truly shocked her. Perhaps she had not realised of the affection that Sansa and Margaery held for one another, or perhaps she had not realised they knew where Ser Loras’ affections lay.

She huffed once more and pushed her teacup away.

“It sounds as though you have sorted everything out. Shall we test that?”

Brynden smiled at her, showing his teeth and feeling almost like the wolves of his charges.

“It would be my pleasure.”

* * *

While they had travelled down to Kings Landing with as much haste as they could muster, sailing as much of the way as they could, their trip up to Winterfell was far slower. They visited and planned to visit as many keeps on their meandering journey past Riverrun as they could, a victory procession of sorts so that the people might see their Queen and she might see them.

The Riverlands were healing, slowly perhaps but waters were running clear once more and people had begun to return to the villages. It was a joyous sight to see, the wounds of war healing.

In every village they passed through, people came out to see Sansa, to throw her flowers and shout blessings, and often they would stop so that Sansa might find out how best to help those people under her rule. It was quickly obvious that she had won their hearts, and how strange it would be to have a beloved monarch rather than a feared one.

It was obvious, however that Tommen was not used to travelling, for he sat awkwardly on his horse and his clothes were very clearly new. Yet to his credit the former king did not complain, he merely dealt with the aches of travelling quietly and without a fuss.

Jon had taken the boy under his wing, treating him as he did his own little brothers, with a combination of gentle scolding and deep care. For all that Tommen was supposed to foster at Winterfell, there was a high chance he would spend time at the Dreadfort as well in the care of Jon and Tormund.

Such a thing would be good for the lad, a chance to see another culture and the lack of expectations that the Free Folk held. At the very least it would be a far cry from the parenting methods of Cersei Lannister and Robert Baratheon.

It would be especially goof for the lad to be among people who cared little for his name or former title, especially after meeting a number of lords of the Riverlands, all of whom had reason to hate those with Lannister blood. None had gone so far as to actually spit at Tommen, but from the looks on a number of their faces they had certainly considered it.

It had probably helped that just as Jon had seemed to have begun to care for the boy, so too had his wolf. And only a fool would anger a direwolf.

They had reached Acorn Hall after near two weeks of travel, and Brynden had joined Sansa and Jon in giving thanks to Lady Smallwood for the aid and care she had shown to Arya while she was travelling with the Brotherhood Without Banners.

The lady had been beside herself, to think she had aided the princess, and horrified that all she had had to offer her was an old gown of her daughters. Arya had hugged the lady then, had thanked her for showing the first bit of care since her father had died, but it had not helped the lady for she had broken down in tears at the thought of a child going through so much.

Brynden definitely approved of her, and would likely suggest to Edmure that she become part of Roslin’s ladies, or suggest to Sansa that she become a part of her court. His nieces and nephews could always do with someone with their priorities in order around them.

But they could not stay at Acorn Hall long, not when it was so greatly impacted by the wars, and not when Edmure was so desperately missing his wife and child.

Brynden himself was looking forwards to meeting baby Robb, and had been quite jealous that Sansa had had the chance while he had not. Jon and Arya did not share his sense of urgency to see the babe, but they were most definitely looking forwards to a week or so of sleeping in a proper bed before they started travelling North once more.

When finally the spires and banners of Riverrun rose up ahead of them, and Brynden felt the same sense of peace he always did when returning to them.

As much as he loved his nieces and nephews, Winterfell could not compare to the castle in which he had grown up.

He was home.


	15. Sansa

Riverrun was even more beautiful, after it had had time to heal from the wars. The gardens had begun to grow back, and the town outside had begun to be rebuilt properly now that it no longer housed an army.

It had been sweet to see the reunion of Edmure and Roslin, it seemed that they did truly care for each other. Just as Brynden had been overjoyed to see baby Robb, and greet him properly for the first time.

“He’s as beautiful as he was the last time I saw him, Aunt Roslin.” Sansa said, as she looked down at baby Robb adoringly.

And it was true, the babe was beautiful. He looked as she remembered Bran at that age, with a tuft of red hair and a gummy smile so sweet it would melt even the hardest of hearts.

“I am pleased you think so, my Queen.” Roslin bobbed into a curtsey. “Might I ask, Your Grace, what sort of room should you like prepared for Lord Tommen? Only, we were unsure as to his place.”

It was the same sort of question she had received from every hold they had stopped in, “Tommen Lannister is my ward, and so should be treated as such. Prepare him a chamber near to my own, or perhaps near my brother’s for Tommen has grown rather fond of Jon.”

Lady Roslin curtsied again, and as she took back baby Robb and moved to prepare the chamber, Sansa noted to ensure that the room for Tommen was prepared before they arrived at Winterfell.

It would not do to have him feel unwelcome in the keep that was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

* * *

“Your Grace! A letter, from Winterfell!”

Sansa took the letter from the overeager page boy and gently broke the wax seal, a slight burst of disappointment filled her chest as she beheld the Maester’s handwriting, instead of one of her brothers.

A weight lifted from her shoulders as she read it contents, Lady Walda had given birth, to a boy she named Domeric, and had chosen to relocate to Bear Island as Sansa and Maege had offered.

Sansa trusted the Mormonts, knew they would ensure that the boy and his mother would hatch no treasons as he grew. It was one of the best options for all of them, kind yet ensuring no threat would grow against her family.

It really was excellent news, and she made a mental note to tell Brynden and Jon after Court as she tucked the letter into a pocket of her dress.

They had all decided that as she was in the Riverlands, it would be good to hold Court and allow those of the lords and ladies and smallfolk who could not travel to Winterfell to air any grievances and offer their petitions.

It was a part of ruling that Sansa loved, for all that her siblings complained it was boring. But she enjoyed the feel that she was actually helping people, the fact she was doing good and making a difference.

A number of the lords were already assembled in the Great Hall, either stood behind the elaborately carved chair that was being used as her throne or waiting at the end of the Hall to be called forwards for an audience. They all bowed as she entered, and remained as such until she sat on the throne her head held high and her crown supported by a mass of Riverlander braids.

A few moments passed and then the first petitioner approached, directed to her by Tyene who took the opportunity to ensure they posed no danger at the same time.

“Your Grace,” Lord Bracken knelt before her, “I would ask your advice.”

Sansa smiled, “Of course, my Lord, if I can help then I will.”

Lord Bracken rose to standing once more, “Thank you, my Queen. In Stone Hedge we hold a number of Lannister prisoners, captured during your own campaign and the Late King Robb’s campaign. What would you have us do with them?”

Sansa supposed she would likely get a number of similar questions that day, that and requests for aid in rebuilding those places damaged by the wars.

“Ransom back those who have families willing to pay a ransom, and use the money to rebuild your lands. Release the others and let them return home.” Sansa decreed.

She would have just said to let them all go, but the extra funds were sorely needed. War was an expensive business and rebuilding after wartime even more so.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lord Bracken bowed once more before gesturing for a servant to bring forth a package wrapped in fine linen. “I gift to you this fine wool cloth, from the sheep of mine own fields, in thanks for your aid.”

In truth Sansa had almost forgotten this tradition of the Riverlands, in which the monarch was gifted the product of an estate in thanks for their help. She knew the words though, the ones harking back to the River Kings of Old.

“I thank you for this offering from your own fields, it is a generous gift that will be used in the intent it is given.”

Arya was the one to step forwards and take the package, a role she had been given by Brynden to ensure she did not fall asleep during the Court session. She had fallen asleep once, during a session at Winterfell, and her snores had been loud enough that everyone present had heard them. No one particularly wanted a repeat of that.

Lord Bracken bowed a final time and moved away from the throne, to stand at the sides of the Great Hall as an observer.

The next to come forwards was a smallfolk man, and Sansa had a moment of wondering what exactly Tyene’s criteria were for the order of petitioners for it certainly was not by the traditional order of Houses.

“Your Grace.” The man knelt before her, wringing his cap in his hands and with a very nervous expression on his face, “I beg of you to help, my village is just outside of Maidenpool, and while we are rebuilding well we have no Septon nor Maester nearby to aid the sick and give comfort to the dying.”

Sansa leaned forward slightly and caught the man’s eye, a gentle smile graced her face, “You have travelled far indeed with your request. We shall do all we can to help you, and your fellows.” She reassured, before sitting back up and speaking in a slightly more imperious tone, “My Lord Mooton, what aid do you need in ensuring all the people under your care receive the support they need to return to their normal lives?”

A pale, plump man hurried to kneel before her, a bead of sweat dripping down from his hairline.

“Your Grace, we, we are doing all we can, but Maidenpool was all but destroyed during the Wars.” He reached up a plump hand to wipe away the bead of sweat, “We cannot aid everyone.”

Sansa took a deep breath, and while her smile was still pleasant it now held an edge that her siblings knew to be wary of.

“Is it not your duty, as Lord of those lands, to do all you can to aid those under your care?”

Lord Mooton swallowed, “It is, Your Grace.”

“Then you must be in dire need of aid indeed, if sending a raven to Old Town to request a Septon is beyond your power at this time.” From the corner of her eye she could see Arya start to grin at her words, a vindictive grin that informed Sansa her words were as sharp as she had intended them to be. “So I ask once more, Lord Mooton: what aid do you need in ensuring all your people are cared for properly?”

The lord lowered his eyes to the stones beneath his feet and spoke in a voice more akin to that of a chastised child than that of a lord, “We need stone and wood, and men to work it, Your Grace.”

“Then those things shall be arranged.” Sansa declared, although it was a struggle to keep the condescension out of her tone, “If you speak with Lord Brynden then we shall make the arrangements for the materials and men that you need. In the meantime, I expect you to visit those villages on your land to determine, and see to, their needs. Is that acceptable?”

The lord of Maidenpool had no choice, he kept his head bowed and his tone quiet, but his words were still audible to all, “Yes, Your Grace.”

Sansa clapped her hands together, “Excellent.” She turned to the smallfolk man, “Is this acceptable? Or would you like any more help?”

The man swallowed and looked up at her with something approaching reverence, “Thank you, Your Grace, it is, it is more than we had hoped. My village, we cannot offer you much in thanks but we do have this.” From the fold of his cloak he pulled out a kitten whose fur was as red as Sansa’s own hair, “It is not much, but her mother was a good mouser.”

“I thank you for this offering from your own fields, it is a generous gift that will be used in the intent it is given.” Her voice was warm as she offered the traditional thanks once more, not just for the kitten, but for the way it made Arya’s face soften.

As the two men left the area in front of her throne Sansa settled back, they were only the first few of a long line of petitioners and she would likely be holding Court for quite some time.

* * *

Sansa had known Tommen was a sweet boy, had known he was different from the rest of his family (save Myrcella of course) but watching him interact with the kitten was reassuring all the same. Joffrey likely would have tormented it for fun, but Tommen merely stroked it and ensured it received as much food as it wished, from his own plate at times even.

“Have you named the kitten yet?” Jon asked her with a grin, “Or are you going to take as long to name her as Bran took to name Summer?”

Sansa threw a walnut at him, so that it bounced off his forehead, “No, actually I was wondering if Tommen would like to name her?”

The little boy looked up as he heard his name, and as her words registered his face filled with glee.

“Do you mean that, Queen Sansa? Can I really name her?”

She smiled at him kindly, “Of course you may. I do not say things I do not mean, especially when they are of such great importance as naming a kitten.”

Tommen’s brow creased in concentration and his hands stopped moving, so engrossed was he in trying to decide a name for the kitten.

The kitten yowled loudly at the lack of attention, causing Tommen to apologise to it and move back to stroking it while he thought.

“With that noise and colour, I vote we name it Ygritte.” Jon muttered, for which both Sansa and Arya turned to him with raised eyebrows.

“I’m going to tell Ygritte you said that.” Arya said.

Jon’s eyes widened in horror, “Please don’t, I think I quite like living really.”

Arya tossed a dagger in the air and caught it effortlessly, a lesson Oberyn had given her that neither Sansa, Brynden or Jon had approved of. “What is my silence worth?”

Jon looked pained for a moment, “I can ask Tormund to teach you how to use an axe?”

“Deal.”

Sansa’s attention was diverted from the antics of her siblings by a soft tug on her skirt, and when she looked down she met Tommen’s and the kitten’s green eyes.

“I would like to name her Lady Fluff, if that is alright?” He asked, in his high little boy’s voice, “She reminds me a bit of my kittens. But they disappeared when mother made us all hide inside the Red Keep.”

“I think that is a most excellent name,” Sansa reassured him, “And if you like I am sure we can find you another kitten or two when we reach Winterfell.”

* * *

The Godswood at Riverrun did not have a Heart Tree, nor did it hold the same sense of peace that the Godswood of Winterfell did. Yet it was a comfort all the same, similar to the way the one at the Red Keep had been.

“I thought I might find you here.” Jon limped over to where she was sat beneath the branches of a large oak, “What’s wrong?”

Sansa waited until he had sat down on the soft grass next to her and leaned into his shoulder, “I’m scared, Uncle Brynden told me that he spoke with Lady Olenna about a betrothal, and it was my idea but-”

“But you don’t want to be married to Ser Loras.” Jon finished. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close against his side. “You would much rather be married to Lady Margaery.”

Sansa nodded into his shoulder and let out a shuddering breath, “I should be happy. He’s everything I wanted when I was younger, everything that father promised me and yet I find I do not want a man who is brave and gentle and strong.”

“Sometimes the things we want change as we get older.” Jon said knowingly, “Do you think I wanted to marry a man when I was your age? A man of the Free Folk no less?”

Sansa giggled at the thought, when they had been four and ten, Jon and Robb had wanted to be heroes of legend like Aemon the Dragon-knight or Bran the Builder, they had held little thought of marriage except perhaps to wish for a beautiful princess or lady to rescue. Jon certainly had never thought of marriage to a Free Folk man, even if he had realised of an attraction to his own sex.

She could hear the smile in his voice, “Exactly. So do not be hard on yourself for a change in tastes, besides, I am sure Lady Margaery would be happy to accompany her brother to Winterfell and you can live as if married without worrying for the line of succession.”

She supposed that was true. Very few people would care who Sansa took to her bed, provided she had legitimate heirs. Heirs enough to prevent the Vale trying to put Arya’s children on the throne, to stop the Riverlands and North championing Bran or Rickon’s children.

There was solid reasoning behind it, beyond their need to make trade for food and Sansa’s need to not show special favour to any of the kingdoms under her rule.

But it did not soften the loss of her dreams. Once, back when Winterfell was newly returned to them, when she was high on the thrill of victory, Sansa had believed that she might marry for love. That she might marry Margaery to showcase her love to the whole of Westeros, but reality had come crashing down with a vengeance and her dream was not to be.

Jon reached to brush a curl away from her face, “You know, you do not have to marry anyone if you do not want to. No one can force you, and if they do then they will meet the tip of my blade.”

His serious tone was offset by Arya suddenly crashing to the ground in front of them, “Who are we threatening?”

Their little sister was brandishing a knife, and from the twigs and leaves in her hair and the creases on her clothes Arya had likely been up the tree for a while.

“Arya!” Sansa all but shrieked, “What were you doing up the tree?”

Arya plopped down on Jon’s other side and curled into him, carefully so as not to jolt his leg. “I was hiding from Roslin if you must know. She seemed to think that my dresses were damaged in the attack on Kings Landing which is why I wear breeches, and has offered to make me some to replace them.”

The sheer offence in Arya’s tone was delightful, and so very similar to the way she would react back when their mother would try and brush her hair or when Septa Mordane would try and make her sew.

“How terrible for you.” Jon’s voice was as dry as the Dornish deserts, “And as you so elegantly asked, I was reassuring Sansa that anyone who hurt her would not be long for this world.”

Arya bared her teeth in a smile. “Oh. Well, I think it would be a race between you and I, dear brother, into who could cut the offender open first.”

It was reassuring in its own way to know that her siblings were so willing to spill blood on her behalf, just as she had told Cersei they would.

“Thank you, but I do not think any of this violence will be necessary.”

Arya grumbled at Sansa’s words, but she eventually settled down again as they watched the sunlight dance through the branches.

“In fact,” Sansa said, “I will be very pleased if there is no need for violence for a very long time.”


	16. Bran

It had been difficult having Sansa and Arya and Jon away. It had reminded Bran all too clearly of when Robb and Mother had gone South, and of how they had never come back.

He had not been able to voice those fears though, not when he needed to be strong for Rickon. Rickon who had chosen to share his bed and rarely left Bran or Osha’s side.

“Is Sansa going to come back?” Rickon whispered fearfully, the fifth or so iteration of that question he had asked that week.

Bran pulled him closer, “Of course she is. And Arya and Jon and Uncle Brynden too. All of them are going to come home to us.”

Rickon seemed to settle down for a moment, before he spoke up again, “But what if Winterfell is taken from us again? What will happen then?”

Bran suddenly felt very old. He turned so he could look his little brother in the eye and spoke in a voice as like Robb’s as he could make it.

“Do you really think our family would have left without preparing for that? If such a thing were to happen, then Jeyne and Osha and Ygritte have all been asked to take us to Tormund at the Dreadfort. Besides, I don’t think anyone would want to make Sansa angry by taking Winterfell, she’s scary when she wants to be.”

Rickon let out a watery giggle, “Arya’s scary as well! She’s going to be a knight!”

“Yes but that’s normal scary, Sansa is the same sort of scary Mama was, like she knows everything you have ever done.”

His baby brother snuggled closer, until he was plastered against Bran’s side, and Bran gently tugged his hair in retaliation for the cold toes pressed against his skin. Just because he could not easily flinch away, did not mean such behaviour was acceptable!

“Do you think that means that Sansa will know that Shaggy and I stole extra dessert from the kitchens last week? And that we accidentally got mud all over the tapestries in the hall?” Rickon whispered.

Although Rickon could not see it, Bran rolled his eyes. “Even if her scariness doesn’t tell her about that, Jeyne will. Besides, you know and I know that the mud was not accidental, you both shook off like pups right in front of the tapestry knowing exactly what would happen. Just like you knew exactly what would happen when you chose to run through the courtyard on washing day and speckled all the linens with mud.”

Rickon giggled again. “It was funny though.”

His voice trailed off with his last few words and soft, snuffling snores started to leave his mouth as he fell into sleep, reassured by Bran’s words and exhausted after a day of mischief making.

Bran just held him tightly and allowed himself to slip into sleep as well, praying he would have no visions that night.

* * *

_His prayers had not been answered for he soon found himself in an arena that was too clear to be just a dream. Blades clashed together, a harsh clanging that rang through his ears like discordant bells. A man with blue hair crossing swords with one with the look of the North._

_He ran his gaze around the edges of the arena, over the sun bleached stone until it landed on a small woman, far paler than the rest of her companions. She was small, dainty even, but had a presence as large as any that he had seen before._

_It did not take the white of her hair nor the dragon pendant at her throat to work out who she was._

_Daenerys Targaryen, the Dragon Queen._

_To one side of her was a man with a bronze spiked cap, to the other a dark skinned woman in a pale yellow gown. The three of them were the only observers to the spar, in an arena that could have seated hundreds._

_He seemed to have arrived towards the end of the fight for it did not take long for the blue haired man to pin his opponent to the floor with a wicked grin._

_The Dragon Queen clapped her hands together in joy, “Oh, what a good fight from both of you!” She called out, “Well done Daario!”_

_As the blue haired man, this Daario, held out a hand to help his opponent to his feet, another person entered the arena. One he knew._

_“My Queen, there is a visitor here for you, from Westeros.” The Imp said, a simpering tone to his voice._

_“Oh?” Daenerys Targaryen’s voice was filled with a sort of childlike delight. “Have they come to kill me or to aid their true queen?”_

_The Imp smiled at her, a condescending and yet somehow awe filled smile. “Lord Euron of House Greyjoy has come to see you, Your Grace, I believe he wishes to offer you an alliance.”_

_“Khaleesi, this man, this pirate, the most horrendous tales follow him. He rips out the tongues of his own crew, and even his own family thinks he is too violent.” The Mormont said, his identity far more obvious once he was garbed again in his family sigil._

_“The same horrid tales are said of you in Westeros and the North, or so I have heard, my brave knight.” The Dragon Queen ran a hand over the Mormont’s cheek, “I shall judge this Euron Greyjoy by his own merits, not by the rumours that surround him.”_

_It was shocking to see how easily the worries of Mormont subsided at her words, shocking too to see the blood thirst in the slight smile on her face. He realised with some horror, that likely the Dragon Queen wished for the rumours about Euron Greyjoy to be true as he would certainly be a formidable ally._

_He followed them through the streets, the same ones he had seen before. They had changed little since then, starving children still ran through the streets, some in the remnants of clothes that must once have been fine; black flies still gathered in clouds around corpses left to bloat in the sun; and over it all was the terrible screeching of some great predator. The terrible screeching of dragons._

_The Dragon Queen and her entourage barely seemed to notice the state of the streets, although he did see her handmaiden glance at the children with sorrow on her face._

_More men with bronze spiked caps, and those with long oiled braids with curved swords at their hips guarded the entrance to the palace of Daenerys Targaryen, and even more milled about inside, their leathers looking rather out of place compared to the elaborate mosaics and long silk drapes that adorned the walls._

_The man, Theon’s uncle, looked very different to Theon and Asha. His hair might have been as dark as theirs, but the piercing blue of his uncovered eye, and the pal blue of his lips made him look quite different indeed. So too did the cruelty inherent in the twist of his mouth and that shone through in his eye._

_“Queen Daenerys, you are far more beautiful than they say.”_

_For such an intimidating looking man his voice was soft, and surprisingly charismatic; the Dragon Queen certainly was not unaffected by it as a faint pink bloomed on her cheeks._

_“You brought a hundred ships from the Iron Islands and men to sail them.” Daenerys Targaryen said, “And in return I assume you want me to support your claim to the Iron Islands, over that of your niece?”_

_Euron Greyjoy leered up at her, “Only if it pleases you to do so, of course.”_

_The Dragon Queen shifted in her throne, and a pleased smile overtook her face. Many likely would have thought her beautiful, but he could see the glint of a hunger for power and blood in her eyes, the same glint he had once seen on Joffrey’s face, although he had not recognised it then._

_He wondered how the Imp did not recognise the look, but perhaps he was distracted by her pretty face. He had seen his sister run rings around people enough to know that a pretty face often turned even the smartest men into bumbling fools._

_“It would please me.” Daenerys Targaryen leaned forwards, “It would please me indeed.”_

_Greyjoy’s eyes dropped from her face, and with some disgust he realised that Greyjoy was glancing do_ _wn her bodice instead._

_“Then I am yours to com_ _mand,” Euron Greyjoy looked up and locked his eyes with hers, “My Queen.”_

* * *

As soon as the procession his family were in had been spotted Bran was filled with the sort of joy that would have had him jumping around and scrambling up and down towers had his legs still worked. As it was, instead he wheeled himself across the courtyard as quickly as he could to hunt down Rickon in the kennels to make him change into something clean and wash his face free of mud and food splatters.

He would at least make it seem like Rickon had bathed more than once in the time everyone was away.

A bustle filled the courtyard as people made preparations for the return of their Queen and the large number of people that made up her entourage, and a palpable sense of relief filled the air.

Even the direwolves were obviously pleased to have their littermates returning, both Summer and Shaggydog pranced around with their tails wagging excitedly, looking more like over-gown dogs than almost-mythical predators. More shocking than their demeanour though, was that Shaggydog allowed the brambles and clumps of mud to be brushed out of his fur without complaint, just as Rickon himself allowed his curls to be tamed with a comb.

Truly it was a day for the history books.

They all lined up like they had when King Robert came to visit, only the line was so much shorter. Bran stood where their mother had stood, while Rickon, as Sansa’s heir, stood where their father had. Personally Bran doubted that any semblance of formality would last long, but they could at least pretend that the formalities would be observed.

He had even instructed Rickon on the correct, traditional welcome home her should use, although once more he doubted Rickon would use it. Rickon was far more likely to just throw his arms around Sansa and refuse to let go than bow and say anything traditional.

He was proved entirely correct when, as soon as Sansa’s feet touched the stones of the courtyard, Rickon rushed over to her with his arms outstretched asking to be picked up. A scandalised gasp went up from the southerners in her entourage, but the Northerners just smiled, some likely remembering how Bran and Arya used to do the same whenever their father returned from a trip away.

Sansa laughed and picked Rickon up so he was sat against her hip and kept him there as she greeted everyone else, starting with Bran and then moving on to the lords and ladies of the North and the senior staff of Winterfell. Jon and Arya did not bother to follow her, they stayed by Bran, recounting stories from their time away and watching as the wolves reunited by rolling around together and undoing all the hard work that went into brushing them.

He was so distracted by the sight he barely noticed Sansa leading someone over to him until she was stood in front of him.

“Bran, I’m sure you remember Tommen.” Sansa waited for him to nod, “I would like very much for you two to be friends.”

Bran eyes the plump former king suspiciously, he would make no promises about _that_.

* * *

They had less than a week before Jon returned to the Dreadfort, before he returned to Tormund and Munda and Torva. And Theon, Bran supposed, but really Jon and Theon were going to trade places, with Theon coming back to Winterfell once Jon arrived.

With the knowledge they only had a short amount of time together, although there would surely be a large number of visits in the not too distant future, they had decided to hole up in the family solar with cards and snacks so they could spend the evening as their true ages, rather than the adults their positions forced them to be.

“Is Bran going to have to get married?” Rickon tilted his head to one side and looked at Sansa with big eyes.

Bran never fell for the big eyes that Rickon used, mostly because he had once come across Rickon and Shaggydog practicing them together. Seeing just how much effort Rickon had put into convincing their older siblings and uncles to do his bidding made Bran feel a lot of respect for him, as well as having the effect of granting him complete immunity to such an expression.

“Of course he is, and you are one day.” Arya answered, with her usual complete lack of tact.

Rickon’s face screwed up into the early stages of a tantrum, “But I don’t want to marry a girl. Girls are gross and silly, and they don’t like mud.”

Bran did not bother to hide his giggles as Sansa and Arya both placed offended hands over their hearts.

“But I’m a girl Rickon.” Sansa said in a mock offended tone, “Am I gross and silly?”

Rickon patted her knee clumsily, “No. Because you aren’t a girl, you’re _Sansa_.” He said confidently.

“Sorry to disappoint you, little wildling,” Jon said, sweeping Rickon up onto his lap, “But Sansa and Arya are both girls. As are Torva and Munda, and I know you like them both.”

Bran saw a chance to sow a little mischief among his siblings, he rolled his eyes back into his head, until he was sure only the whites were showing and started to speak in a monotone.

“Rickon, shorter than Arya is now, looking up at a woman dressed all in red. Flames dance around them.”

He unrolled his eyes to look at his siblings, all of whom were watching him with slight horror on their faces.

“Are you saying Rickon is going to marry a Red Priestess?” Arya asked, with a sort of horrified fascination.

Bran could not hold back his laughter for any longer as Rickon pulled a disgusted face. His laughs spilled out of him, causing his siblings to go from horrified to annoyed within a few short seconds

He kept laughing, even as they started to throw things at him. It was nice to have his family home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder (in case anyone was confused) that Bran's 'real' visions are written in italics, whilst any fake ones he has to mess with his siblings are just written normally.


	17. Jon

For so many years Jon had never thought he would look forward to going to any keep but Winterfell, and yet when the towers of the Dreadfort rose up before him he felt the unmistakable sensation of returning home. It was not the keep itself of course that sparked such a feeling, but more the people inside.

If he squinted, he almost thought he could see Tormund stood upon the battlements, but of course that was mere fantasy, he was still far too far away to see even a giant upon the walls, let alone his husband.

It did not stop him speeding up his horse though, not even the knowing smirks of the guards that had been sent with him could do that. Not even a sudden blizzard or an army of white walkers could do that.

The changes that had been made since Jon had last rode through the streets that surrounded the castle were readily apparent. The people seemed happier, for a lack of better way to describe them, as though a fear had been lifted from them and the streets were cleaner. It was a sense probably helped by the flayed man banners no longer flying, replaced instead by the white wolf Jon had taken as his own sigil.

His return to the Dreadfort was not as celebrated as their return to Winterfell had been, yet still some people cheered when they saw him, and children chased after their horses giggling as they turned it into a game.

Jon grinned and threw some copper stars at them just before he entered the gates of his castle, his grin widening as he heard their whoops of joy and the thanks they called out to him. It was amazing what living free from fear could do to a population in such a short time.

He sped up his horse for the final few steps for he could hardly bear to be parted from Tormund for much longer, Ghost too sped up by his side, no longer sulking over leaving his littermates behind again.

No sooner had he dismounted then a large figure barrelled into him, knocking him off his feet. He did not fall, however, instead he was picked up and twirled around with not a thought for propriety.

Jon threw his head back and laughed, the familiar feel of Tormund’s hands around his waist and the wide grin on his husband’s face filling him with joy.

“I have missed you, my pretty crow.” Tormund said once he had settled Jon back on the ground, his hands still clasped around his waist.

“And I missed you.” Jon replied. He tilted his face up, asking for a kiss without words, which was a request Tormund happily granted.

It was a long, lingering kiss, one that contained all the love and affection and longing that they felt for each other. And when they parted, they stood still, foreheads resting together so their breath still mingled, and for a moment it was only the two of them, no war or duty determined to break them apart.

But duty was ever present and Jon still had people to greet, stewards and guards and the Maester. Men who treated him with far more deference than he had ever been treated with before, men who appeared almost scared to greet him.

It was humbling to realise that even with the healing that had occurred the fearsome shadow of the Boltons still loomed large.

Jon felt relief therefore, when he saw Theon waiting, a familiar face among a crowd of strangers.

“That display was sickening Snow.” Theon said with a grin as he pulled Jon into a hug.

Jon slapped him on the back in response, “You’re just jealous Greyjoy because I’m prettier than you.”

There was a slight pause and Jon started to wonder if he had actually offended Theon, and then Theon flung his head back and laughed. It was the sort of image that Robb would have likely killed to have seen, the two of them laughing at getting along, and for once the thought of Robb did not cause pain.

“Fuck off Snow.” Theon said warmly, as he gently pushed Jon away, “Go see to your keep. I’m sure we’ll be able to catch up properly later.”

Jon shoved him back, “I’ll hold you to that Greyjoy.”

Tormund linked his hand back through Jon’s and pulled him towards the doors to the Keep.

“Come along you, you need a bath before you greet the girls. And I had near forgotten, Pretty Crow, but what was this I heard about you being hurt in an explosion?” Tormund looked at him with a single raised eyebrow and Jon felt his heart sink at the lecture about safety that was sure to come.

There went his hopes that no one had told Tormund of the wildfire.

* * *

Jon could not help himself from pulling Edd, Grenn and Pyp into a hug. He had missed all of them and the friendship they had shared, even while he enjoyed being among his siblings again.

He had not seen them since sending them on from Winterfell to join Tormund at the Dreadfort, and even then, the time they had spent together had been brief and overshadowed by preparations for the war in the South.

To his great relief they hugged him back, no longer distancing themselves from him as they had at the Wall, back when they were still brothers but he was no longer. It had hurt to have undergone such distancing, especially after just finding out that his brother had died.

And yet, there was still a hole. A Sam shaped hole, for he too should have been there with them. He should have had the chance to live happily with Gilly away from the sway of his father and the taunts of Ser Alliser. The sense of loss was on the other’s faces as well, he could see it in their eyes.

Despite that sense of loss though, Jon did not have to fake a smile.

“How have you all been? Have you settled in alright?” He asked, when they released each other from the hug.

“Its warmer than the Wall.” Edd said, which was practically a gushing review from him.

Pyp grinned at that, an impish grin that covered his whole face, “Aye, the food is better as well. Probably because no one in their right mind lets any of us anywhere near the kitchens.”

Grenn grunted, and placed a heavy hand on Pyp’s shoulders to keep him from bouncing, “You just don’t like that you can’t weasel food from the cook anymore.”

An expression of extreme offense, one that Jon knew for sure was fake, overtook Pyp’s features and he batted at Grenn as though he was swatting at a fly.

“No problems with the Free Folk?”

“No milord. No problems with them.” Pyp said with a sudden formality, as though he had just remembered they were no longer on the Wall.

Jon winced, “Please don’t call me that. Please just use my name.”

“But you are a lord. Our lord.” Grenn pointed out, “You haven’t been just our brother since you came back to Castle Black with wildlings and princes.”

“Your sister pardoned us, you pay our wages, and your sigil hangs from the battlements,” Edd said, “We can’t just call you your name. No more than we could have called you it if you became Lord Commander.”

A cold feeling settled in the pit of Jon’s stomach as he looked at the men who had been his good friends what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Oh.” He said, his voice dejected even to his own ears, “I see.”

He turned and walked away from them, perhaps Ghost would want him around.

* * *

Of all the rooms in the castle, it had to have been the nursery which was the one least changed. It had always been a secure room, one high up in the keep with windows for natural light that held heavy iron shutters in case of attack.

It was the sort of room that was usually under the purview of the Lady of the House, and it seemed that this one had been no different, for it had been done in lighter colours than the rest of the keep and without the gore filled tapestries and banners that had hung on the walls.

The only changes they had really made was to replace the pink and black of the Bolton colours, with the red and white that were their own. The addition of some of Karsi’s belongings on shelves, and furs that had once been on the floors of tents and the room was deemed suitable for the girls.

While Jon had been greeted by the two of them when he arrived, he had not had a chance to really speak with them. He had gone to the nursery in the hopes of speaking with them, but had been informed by Gilly that they were out with a carer to hunt for frogs.

It was nice to hear that they were doing children’s activities, rather than running and fearing for their lives.

The nursery was warm enough that Jon did not mind waiting for them to return, and in truth it did not take long for the door to fly pen to reveal the girls and their carer.

“Milord.” A pretty man, who Jon vaguely recognised bowed to him upon entering the room.

Anything that Jon wished to say in return or that the man wished to say was cut off by the shrieking of both girls and they grabbed Jon in a hug so tight it nearly knocked him over.

“Hello sweetlings,” He cooed down at them, “Did you have a good time?”

Torva nodded ferociously, “We caught lots and lots of frogs, and Satin screamed when one went down his back!”

From the corner of his eye Jon caught a slight pinking on the cheeks of the man he now recognised as the steward who had been assigned to he, Tormund, and Brynden on that fateful visit to the Wall.

“Well however did a frog end up there?” Jon asked, already knowing from experience with his siblings that it would have been placed there by one of the girls.

Torva looked at Munda.

Munda looked at Torva.

Then, as though it was planned they pointed at each other to assign blame. Jon had to supress a giggle at the sight and when he flicked his eyes up he could see that Satin was doing the same.

“Well whoever it was, it wasn’t a very nice thing to do now, was it?” Jon said, feeling slightly hypocritical for saying so when at one point he and Robb had competed to see how many frogs they could put down the back of Sansa’s dresses. “Both of you should apologise to Satin.”

Both girls looked very contrite as they made their apologies but Jon did not believe for one second that they were sincere, for their eyes contained the same glint that Rickon’s did when he was plotting some mischief.

“That was very well done.” He praised, “Now, I think Ghost was looking for someone to cuddle with earlier if that’s something you’re up for.”

He watched the two of them run off with a smile while wondering how much of their troublemaking they got from Tormund, and how much had come from Karsi.

* * *

Jon had almost forgotten how nice it was to curl up in bed with Tormund. How different it was to sharing a bed with his siblings; his sides especially thanked him as he no longer woke with bruised sides from being kicked by Rickon or Arya in the night.

It did not stop him from waking up with a mouthful of red hair though.

He woke with the sense of flames surrounding him, flashes of green had filled his dreams, mingling with the cold blue eyes of the Others. Fear gripped his heart, and his breaths came rapidly, terror flooding through his veins. Or at least, until a heavy arm settled back over him, pulling him closer into Tormund’s side.

“I’m going to have to leave again.” He whispered, “Dragons are coming to Westeros.”

Tormund grumbled and Jon had to strain to hear him but what he heard brought a smile to his face.

“We fought the undead fucker; we can fight an over grown lizard easily.”

A sense of peace settled over him at those words, at the assurance that Tormund would fight by his side no matter what, and he slowly drifted off into a peaceful sleep, content and safe by his husband’s side.


	18. Brynden

Brynden was thankful that Sansa’s old handmaiden had chosen to accompany them North. To know that she had someone who would care for her, who would allow to lay her crown aside for a few hours here and there and just be a girl of four-and-ten, well, it was a relief to know someone would do that for his niece.

Especially with Ellaria no longer there to mother her.

It was sweet to see the genuine care and friendship that existed between Sansa and Shae, to know that not every moment that Sansa had spent in Kings Landing had been agonising.

He worried for her though, worried that the ladies she surrounded herself with did not have her best interests at heart, that they would as soon betray Sansa as gossip with her.

Even after all the betrayal and heartbreak his niece had gone through; Sansa still could be too trusting.

He knew Arya thought so as well, that she tried to keep an eye on the ladies and girls of Sansa’s court but he was hesitant to put any great pressure on her. It was bad enough that Sansa had lost the last vestiges of her childhood, he would try and preserve it for the other three for as long as he could.

Instead he kept an eye on them, he listened to what the servants had to say about them and he made sure that she was never predictably without a direwolf or Tyene by her side.

He would not lose any more family to betrayal, not if he could help it.

* * *

One of the problems which had resulted from the wars that had ravaged Westeros was that the only one of the Stark children who had had anything near a full education was Jon.

Sansa had received a relatively good one, for all that her official lessons had stopped with the death of her father and septa, she had still learnt from people at court, and Brynden had been teaching her himself over the past few months, as he would continue to do in future.

The other three though, they had had almost no lessons and certainly no formal education since the loss of their father. Rickon especially was woefully behind what was expected of any noble his age to have known for while he had received some teaching from his siblings and from the Maester it had not been their priority while preparing for war.

All the noble children in Winterfell had lessons daily with the Maester, lessons covering arithmancy and geography, warfare and diplomacy; but those were not enough for Rickon or Arya who needed to know statecraft.

Brynden himself taught them in the afternoons, when the other children went off to learn swordplay or homecrafts he would gather Arya, Bran, and Rickon for further lessons, directed lessons that would aid them in ruling. Tommen would join them as well, to learn of the lands he would be living in for the next few years and to make a statement about his position.

“By why do the Brackens and Blackwoods hate each other, my lord?” Tommen piped up during one such lesson.

“There’s no need to call me that.” Brynden said, “Just call me ‘Brynden’. The gods know I never get any respect from this lot anyway.”

He waved his arm to gesture at his niece and nephews and hid his grin as they instantly started to protest and prove his point.

Tommen giggled as Arya decided the best way to get her point across was to stand on her chair and gesture manically. And, to be fair, it did make her more noticeable than Bran and Rickon.

“Come on now, lets get back to learning about Riverlands Houses. Settle down.” Brynden tried to restore order.

Rickon howled in protest, a noise that was soon picked up by the wolves outside, his siblings, and even a giggling Tommen. Brynden sighed, he was starting to understand why all Maesters seemed to go bald.

“To answer your question Tommen, it’s an ancient enmity that goes back to the days of the River Kings, like the one that used to exist between the Reynes and the Lannisters.”

He began again once they had settled down a little more, teaching them of the interactions between Houses, the ones that were staunch allies and the ones which despised each other. It was information that was vital to solve issues that might arise, to know who would gladly help and who would not.

“Mew.”

Brynden startled at the sound, there was no reason for a cat to be anywhere near the library. He shook it off, certain he was hearing something.

“Mew.”

There it was again, the high pitched mewing of a kitten.

He affixed a stern look on each child before him, “Is that a kitten I hear?”

Arya and Rickon were the ones he raised an eyebrow at, if any mischief was to occur then it was likely of their making. They remained still though, and looked just as confused as he felt.

“I’m sorry!” Tommen burst, the slightest hint of fear on his face.

The hint of fear made Brynden gentle his voice so it was coaxing rather than accusatory, “Sorry for what?”

The head of Tommen’s kitten popper out of the front of his doublet, bright orange against the dark blue fabric. They all stared at the sight and Brynden waited for an explanation.

“I didn’t want her to be eaten by a direwolf!” Tommen finally said, all in a rush.

Brynden looked from face to face in the room, carefully noting the way that Bran squirmed in his seat.

“Pardon?”

* * *

Sansa levelled Brynden with a look so much like her mother’s that his heart clenched, “What has Rickon done this time?”

Brynden winced, “It wasn’t Rickon. It was Bran.”

The raised eyebrow was certainly well founded, it was rare when it was not Rickon who was the perpetrator of chaos, although Brynden had a slight suspicion that a lot of the chaos caused by Arya and Bran was pinned on their baby brother.

“What has Bran done then? Did he try and convince Rickon that it was traditional to pray naked in the Godswood again?”

He nearly winced again as he remembered that particular event, they had managed to catch Rickon before he spent too long out in the cold but he dreaded to think of what might have happened had they not.

“No, he’s well, he’s decided that Tommen is a better target. He has him convinced that the direwolves’ favourite food is cat.”

The pained expression that crossed Sansa’s face was likely identical to the one he had pulled when he found out.

“Right.” She said, “I’m assuming you would like me to deal with Tommen? Seeing as technically he is under my care.”

That was exactly what he had hoped for, that she would deal with Tommen while he tried to deal with Bran.

He knew he still scared Tommen, that the lad still saw him as one of the warriors who had besieged his home and he did not want to frighten him further. Bran however needed a little scaring, if only to prevent him from traumatising Tommen.

He had sent Bran and Tommen to their rooms and released Arya and Rickon to their swordplay lessons, and it was to Bran’s room that he went.

It was a relatively plain room, when compared with the rooms that noble children often had in the South, and yet still rich in its own way. The bed was piled high with furs and blankets and the walls hung with tapestries depicting scenes from songs, toys lay upon shelves, and a rag rug lay before the fireplace. It was cosy and warm and the care that had gone into it was obvious.

“Am I in trouble?” Bran asked with wide eyes from his spot by the fire.

Brynden sat on the chair opposite him, “You are. It was cruel to torment Tommen like that, and it certainly does not fit under the instructions to ‘be nice’ to him that Sansa, Jon and I all gave you separately.”

Bran pouted and Brynden realised he needed to elaborate, to explain why exactly Tommen was with them at Winterfell instead of in Casterly Rock with his father.

“You need to understand, dear one, that Tommen is not just here because we thought you and Rickon might like a playmate.”

“Why is he here then?” Genuine curiosity filled Bran’s voice.

“Tommen is here, serving much the same purpose that Theon once did, although he is not aware of it. As long as Tommen is here then his father and the Westerlands will not rise up in rebellion, and we can have an influence on the next Warden of the West.” Brynden scrubbed a hand up his face, “It is not the only reason why Tommen is here, a huge proponent of it is to keep him safe from Baratheon that is true, but he is still very much a hostage.”

It was difficult to watch the myriad of expressions that passed over Bran’s face at those words, the realisation that Tommen’s presence was not solely altruistic.

“So, so if the Kingslayer rebels then Sansa is going to kill Tommen?” Bran’s voice sounded very young, for once he sounded his true age.

Brynden wrapped him in a hug, “Sansa will not kill Tommen, don’t you fear. Can you really see your sister doing that? The mere threat is enough. The Westerlands will not rise for a man so callous with his own heir that he rebels while his child is in the hands of his enemies, for if he can abandon his own blood who is to say he will not abandon them if it becomes convenient?”

It was hard to see some more of Bran’s naivety and innocence slip away at his words, but it was something that had to be done.

“Oh.” Bran went very quiet, “Do you think Tommen misses his home?”

“I think he does, sweetling. You know what it is like to lose your mama don’t you?”

Bran nodded and looked thoughtful, “I should apologise, shouldn’t I? what I said was mean.”

Brynden smiled gently at him, “I think that would be a very good idea, sweetling.”

* * *

It was not unusual for Brynden to be brought a pile of scrolls by the Maester, not unusual for him to receive notices and letters from Houses all over Westeros. He split them up, the one with the scythe of the Harlaws went in a basket for Sansa along with the crowned stag of the Baratheon’s, while he kept hold of the Piper’s maiden and a sun and spear that brought a smile to his face.

It did not take him long to scan through the one from Pinkmaiden, it was a mere notice to them that the first crops had started to sprout. Welcome news, but nothing that required any actions other than an acknowledgement.

The second he savoured as he read, for he missed Oberyn’s company greatly since they had parted. It had been more difficult this time than before for they had spent longer together than usual.

_‘Dear One,_

_You will be pleased to know that myself and Ellaria have arrived home safely. Doran was pleased to see we were still alive even if he pretended otherwise._

_My brother is fond of his jokes but I know how to see through him!_

_It is so very nice to be warm again, to be able to walk around without the danger of wet feet and mud splattered clothes, and yet I find I miss the beauty of the North – or perhaps the beauty of those who live in it?_

_Ellaria has asked me to send her love to the Queen and so dutifully I have done so. Her own letters will likely be arriving shortly by courier for they were much too long for a raven._

_I shall languish away waiting for your reply my dear,_

_Yours,_

_Oberyn.’_

Brynden smiled as he finished the letter, he could almost picture Oberyn writing the letter, and making grand gestures as he did so. He started to fold the scroll to put it away and shook his head fondly as he noticed the words inscribed on the back.

_‘I had almost forgot, we stopped in Highgarden on the way home. You will likely be receiving a letter from Sweet Willas soon. You can thank me when we next meet.’_

He resisted the urge to groan at those words, somehow he had forgotten quite how meddling Oberyn could be when he set his mind to it. And yet he could not bring himself to be annoyed, it was such an Oberyn gesture that he could not be.


	19. Sansa

Sansa missed having her older brothers around. The loss of Robb was a constant ache, one that flared up on certain days or was barely noticeable on others. The way she missed Jon and Then was not so deeply entrenched, for they were alive and she knew what they were doing, they just were not around.

Jon was in the home she had gifted him, with a family all his own. He was barely a days travel away and yet he felt further than that. She had got so used to having him around, to having her family as whole as it was ever going to be again around, that for him to not be there when she turned around was upsetting. She wondered sometimes if it was how Robb had felt when they had all first left.

Theon too was gone, he had travelled back to Harlaw on a ship of his sisters, so that he might see his mother for the first time since he was eight. Sansa would not, could not begrudge him such a thing, not when she would gladly give up her crown if it meant she could have her own mother back.

Without them she was lonely, sure she had her ladies and younger siblings and Brynden, but it wasn’t the same. She could never fully relax around her ladies, now that Ellaria was gone she had to be the queen even while relaxing with them, unable to let her guard down in case gossip was spread. With her younger siblings she was more able to relax, but even then Bran and Rickon needed her to take on a mothering role most of the time, and Arya had her own friends and troubles, she did not need to be burdened with Sansa’s.

Especially not after she had wept for near a day after receiving news that her friend in the Vale had recovered from Baelish’s machinations.

She felt guilty whenever she saw Shae all bundled up in layers of fur and wool, her friend was as unsuited for the cold of the North as Sansa had been for the bitter heat of Kings Landing. But whenever she tried to voice those thoughts, whenever she tried to offer to send Shae somewhere warm and sunny where she could wear her silks again, she was shot down.

“You did not force me to come here, my lady.” Shae said when Sansa tried again, “You offered to send me home. But I could not forgive myself if I left you alone.”

She opened up her arms to offer a hug and Sansa burrowed into them eagerly, even as she felt another surge of guilt over Shae remaining for her. It all started to become too much as she was held in Shae’s arms and tears began to fall.

“I have you Sansa. I have you.” Shae soothed, running a hand over Sansa’s hair.

The tears fell even harder as Shae tried to soothe her, for her actions were the same as the ones her mother had used when Sansa had awoken from a nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa sobbed, “You must think me so stupid. What rights do I have to cry?”

“I think you’ve been brave for very long. And you can let yourself be weak.”

Slowly Sansa started to calm down, her breathing evening out and her tears drying up. But Shae did not release her, she kept her encircled in those comforting arms.

“I once told Lord Varys that I would kill for you, and I say it again to you now. I would kill for you, because I believe you will be the Queen your people need, for you are kind and so very strong.”

The tears that had dried started to well up again but Sansa blinked them back, she looked up at Shae, and met her brown eyes with her own Tully blue.

“Thank you. And if you need anything, or want to go anywhere, then I shall do whatever is in my power to give it to you.”

Shae’s arms tightened, and although she said no words Sansa could feel the thanks and love her hold contained.

She might be missing her older brothers, but at least she had the woman who was like an older sister there with her.

* * *

“King Beyond the Wall.” Sansa bowed her head slightly in greeting.

“Queen of Winter.” Mance Rayder bowed his head back, “I must thank you for your hospitality this past winter, and the support you have offered to my people.”

Sansa smiled, “It was my pleasure to help your people, just as you helped mine and my family. I dread to think of what might have happened had your men not found my brothers.”

And it was true, she woke from nightmares sometimes where Bran and Rickon had not been found by Jon and the Free Folk who had been with him, nightmares where Arya lost herself, where Brynden had not saved her and she had needed to rely on Baelish, nightmares where a monster still held her home.

“Well, there was no chance that Tormund or Ygritte would ever let Jon Snow be unhappy with them.” Mance laughed, “Especially not when Osha was added to the mix. That your little brothers are so easy to love probably helped as well.”

The compliment warmed something inside her, soothed a persistent worry of what would happen to Rickon and Bran should she pass.

“They are.” Sansa smoothed her face, “I wished to ask, what were your people’s plans now that spring is here?”

“Eager to get rid of us?” He must have seen the horror that Sansa felt at any implied discourtesy, for he held his hands up and laughed, “I jest Queen Sansa, I jest! You have been a most kind host. My people wish to return home, back to our own settlements and grounds. Even now my people are preparing, repairing our tents and boots, and ensuring that we have supplies of food that will last until we reach the best hunting grounds.”

That was good news, that his people wanted to return home, that they did not want to stay in the North. Not because she wanted rid of them, but because almost the moment the Dawn had broke Sansa had had lords asking her when the Free Folk were leaving.

Too much blood had been spilt between them for a single battle to ignite an everlasting friendship.

“We should depart once this snow clears, the elders say that it will be the last of the heavy snows to fall.” Mance said, “I would like to ask though on behalf of those who have fallen for your own people, what will the Watch be like now?”

Sansa smiled, she had good news for him on that front, “The Nights Watch has been reformed, they shall serve as a trading post of sorts between our peoples. Provided that your people obey my laws in my lands then they shall be free to move as they wish. I would say that any who wish to remain, to settle here permanently, must behave as any of my own citizens do in regard to laws and taxes.”

Mance looked at her, a long hard look as if he was assessing the firmness of her words. He must have seen how honest she was being because he nodded after a moment.

“Aye.” He said slowly, “That is fair. I shall let them know.”

“I should also like to set up a meeting, for a few moons hence, to discuss trade between us. I would not have our alliance fail when problems can be so easily solved by trading.”

It had been Jon’s idea, to have trade between them, they could provide food and steel to the Free Folk, while the Free Folk could provide furs and oils.

He looked at her again, as though he could hardly believe what she was saying.

“Aye, Your Grace, I think we can do that.”

Mance held out his hand and Sansa shook it, as she had seen Free Folk do before. They would rebuild both above and below the Wall by working together.

* * *

Ever since Bran had relayed his vision to them all, of the Targaryen Queen in Essos and Euron Greyjoy, Sansa and Brynden had been preparing for her arrival on their shores.

They had made plans for her armies, plans for the safety of Rickon and Arya and Bran should it look like Winterfell was to be attacked, plans for the dragons.

They had already determined that while they would fight for as long as they could, if the Essosi Targaryen started to burn Sansa’s Kingdoms then she would do as her ancestor had done and bend the knee. She would not let her people die gruesomely for her pride.

But they would do all they could so that they did not have to reach that point.

They had sent to the Citadel and Dorne for information on dragons, on how they had been fought before. If any place was to hold that information it would be them.

Dorne had been the only Kingdom that did not fall to dragon fire, the only one which was not conquered but rather joined through marriage. There were surely secrets contained within their halls on how best to repel dragons, or else information Prince Oberyn had gained on his many travels.

Sansa could only pray that any information reached them before the Dragon Queen herself did.

She knew that King Stannis had men scouring the towers and library of the Red Keep, that he had men searching the catacombs where the dragons were buried and the Sept of Baelor where the Targaryen kings had been buried. Men scoured the halls of Dragonstone and the tunnels beneath, all of which were fuelled by the hope that the Targaryens themselves might have left information on how to control their dragons, on how to deal with ones that were out of control.

Ravens flew back and forth from Kings Landing and Winterfell, ensuring that their alliance held and ensuring that Westeros would come together to remove the invading army from Essos.

They expected the Targaryen to land on Dragonstone, the same sense of entitlement that led her to pursue a throne in a land she had never set foot in, a land her family was ousted from before she was born, would surely also be applied to the traditional Targaryen hold of Dragonstone.

Even in spite of the fact that it was currently owned by a Targaryen with a far greater claim than her.

Dragonstone was being evacuated, its stores emptied and its people rehomed even as it was being searched. They would offer the invaders no aid of any kind, leave no smallfolk to be terrorised by the Dothraki horde that the Dragon Queen thought would be a good idea to bring from Essos.

It was with those thoughts in mind that Sansa summoned Arya to her office, to discuss the actions that she would take to ensure her family’s safety.

“No.” Arya slammed her fist onto the desk, “You are not sending me away again.”

Sansa sighed and rubbed her eyes, “I want to send you away to keep you safe Arya. I cannot bear the thought of losing you. If the Dragon Queen flies North she will fly straight to Winterfell and I cannot guarantee that she will not just set the keep on fire as a warning to all others, regardless of any civilians that may be inside.”

“Send Rickon to the Dreadfort, send Bran to Greywater Watch, but my place is at your side,” Arya’s voice lost all hostility and turned pleading, “What use is a Master of Whispers who cannot whisper to her Queen?”

“Arya, I just want you to be safe. I want all of you to be safe, is that so wrong?” Sansa heard her voice crack halfway through but could not bring herself to be ashamed of it.

Arya rounded the desk until she was stood in front of her and took her hands in a gentle grip.

“Sansa, you cannot protect me forever. You cannot protect all of us forever. Let me protect you this time. Let me look after you this time.”

Carefully, like Sansa was in danger of breaking, Arya pulled her into a hug.

“Every time that I think of you or Bran or Rickon or Jon in danger I picture mother and father and Robb, all looking so disappointed in me. I’m the queen, its my job to protect you.”

Arya scoffed and rolled her eyes, like they were years younger and arguing over something trivial.

“That’s stupid. You need to learn to delegate Sansa. Else you’ll go grey before you’re twenty. Besides, mother and father and Robb could never be disappointed in you. You avenged them, gave our home its freedom and you managed to make Rickon take a bath.”

A burst of laughter escaped Sansa quite unbidden.

“One of those things is not like the others.”

Arya grinned, “No, you’re right. Bathing Rickon is much more difficult than defeating the Lannisters, Boltons, and Freys.”

They laughed for a few moments more before it petered off and Arya looked Sansa directly in the eyes with an uncommon sternness.

“I meant it though, you aren’t sending me away this time. If you burn then I will burn by your side.”

A knock on the door startled them from their discussion, and when Sansa called out for the visitor to enter, it was the Maester, who looked very worried indeed.

“Your Grace? A letter has arrived, it bears the seal of House Targaryen.”

Sansa felt dread start to pool in her stomach, she doubted the letter came from Aegon to ask about their crop rotation plans.

* * *

_‘Lady Stark,_

_Your treasons have not gone unnoticed._

_Your rebellion has not gone unnoticed._

_Come south to Dragonstone and swear fealty to the True Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and she will be merciful._

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.’_


	20. Jon

When the letter came from Sansa, calling all the lords of the North, the Riverlands and the Vale to Winterfell, it was only the knowledge that Sansa would kill him if he showed up with nothing suitable to wear that kept Jon from rushing straight to the stables.

It would be a sad end to his life if he survived the Others, the Boltons, and the Lannisters all to be murdered by an irate sister for forgetting to bring clothing suitable to his station when he attended a full council of the Lords.

When he voiced those thoughts to Tormund, his husband laughed, longer and harder than perhaps was necessary. But Jon had the last laugh when he pointed out that Tormund too was expected to attend the council, that he too would need to wear clothing appropriate for such an event.

The baffled and slightly offended expression on Tormund’s face made Jon laugh even as he tried to explain just what Tormund’s position technically was within Sansa’s kingdoms and how he was supposed to act and dress in light of that.

He supposed that in Tormund’s mind he was still a Free Folk man, furred and carrying all his possessions with him. Jon made a note that when everything was over, when he knew why Sansa had called them all to Winterfell, he would take Tormund and the girls and go Beyond-the-Wall so that the girls would not forget their heritage and so Tormund could spend his time as he wished.

It was a nice thought, that his family could spend some time free from obligations.

But it was a thought that would have to wait. Jon went to his and Tormund’s chambers to pack, leaving Tormund to inform his daughters that they were leaving. The girls would not be travelling with them to Winterfell, instead they would be left in the more than capable hands of Gilly and Satin.

Jon made sure to pack the clothing that Sansa had made for him, knowing it put a smile on her face to see one of her presents worn and knowing that she would likely need cheering up if the summons was for the reason Jon thought it was.

They would all need moments of lightness if the Dragon Queen had landed in Westeros with her slave army.

Tormund was more difficult to pack for, so much of his clothing was in the style of the Free Folk, and while Jon loved his husband in whatever he wanted to wear, he knew that he would not be taken seriously by the other lords if he did not dress like them. It made anger fill his heart at the thought that something so trivial could be the reason his husband’s wise words were ignored, and yet it was not something he could change, not something even Sansa could change, or at least not quickly enough for it to matter in the coming weeks.

He had managed to pack a few items, Tormund’s wedding clothes among them, when his husband returned with a downtrodden look on his face.

Jon went to him and cradled a cheek in his palm, “We’ll be back soon enough. And the girls love Gilly and Satin, they won’t cause too much trouble while we’re gone. And if they do, well they are your daughters.”

Tormund sighed and pressed his cheek further into Jon’s palm, “I had thought that living like kneelers do would have given me more time with the girls. That not having to worry for firewood or food or raiding would let me spend more time with them.”

Jon felt his heart clench, felt an unbearable guilt for dragging Tormund to Winterfell with him.

“You can stay here if you want, stay with the girls. I can deal with the business in Winterfell alone if you want.”

A smile crept its way onto Tormund’s face and he looed at Jon with such affection that his heart sipped a beat.

“The last time I let you go anywhere by yerself you got blown up. I would be a fool to let you go alone, my pretty crow.”

A matching smile crept onto Jon’s own face, “I would like to remind you that it was not my choice to get blown up. And it is not an experience I would want to repeat any time soon.”

Tormund’s hand came to cradle Jon’s own cheek and they spent a long moment merely looking into each other’s eyes and the love contained there.

“I will be coming to Winterfell with you. Give the girls a chance to cause some chaos. And if you try and die on me again, I’m hauling yer arse out of death and yelling so much that you lose all yer hearing.”

Jon leaned up and pressed a kiss against Tormund’s lips, “That sounds fair enough.”

* * *

No matter how much Jon had made the Dreadfort his home, some part of him would always view Winterfell as his home above all else. The towers and crenellations were comforting and the banners sparked a nostalgia for running and playing around Winterfell with Robb when they were boys.

They were not met in the courtyard, but instead directed to the Great Hall along with other lords who had arrived at a similar time. Jon supposed it was much too cold for them all to be met in the courtyard, not when so many people showed up at varying points throughout the day.

Sansa was sat in the chair that had been father’s, Rickon in the place which had been Robb’s, and Arya and Bran in the places they had always used to take. Tommen was perched on the chair which had always been Theon’s, a kitten in his lap despite the solemn occasion, and Jon was pleased to see that he seemed to have settled in well.

“Prince Jon, Lord Giantsbane, welcome back to Winterfell.” Sansa inclined her head the slightest amount in greeting while Jon bowed back to her.

“It is a pleasure to be here, Your Grace.”

A steward came forwards and offered them bread and salt, a ritual which was observed with even greater solemnity following the Red Wedding.

With bread and salt eaten Jon and Tormund retreated to the sides of the room to observe the other lords being greeted, for the moment it seemed to be only Northern Lords, those who were close enough to respond quickly, but undoubtedly over the next few days and weeks there would be an influx of lords from the Vale and Riverlands.

They waited patiently until the last of the lords had been greeted, offered guest right and shown to where they would be staying, whether that was within the Keep itself or a place to pitch their tents outside the walls. Jon already knew he would have his room back, that it had been left set up for him and likely would remain as such for as long as he lived.

A smile lifted up the corners of his sister’s mouth when she saw him still standing there, and, with the formal part of the greetings done, she flung herself into his arms, shortly followed by the rest of his siblings.

“Welcome home Jon.” Sansa murmured in his ear.

Jon hugged her and the rest of them back just as tightly, “Its nice to be home.”

He released them all so he could check them over. Sansa had grown again, she was now taller than him by quite a ways, she was likely nearly as tall as Robb had been and it gave him a sense of déjà vu to have to look up to greet her blue eyes. Arya had grown as well, although not by much at all, she was still comfortingly short.

Jon turned to see Rickon, but his baby brother had disappeared from sight, and it was not until he heard a whoop of delight and the deep laughter of his husband that Jon realised where Rickon had gone.

He turned and could not hold back his own bark of delighted laughter at the sight of Rickon climbing up Tormund like Bran used to climb the walls of Winterfell. There was a very determined expression on Rickon’s face and an indulgent one on Tormund’s, and Jon had a moment’s realisation that if he did not already love Tormund this interaction would have certainly sparked those feelings.

Arya let out a war cry and she too launched herself at Tormund, although whether her aim was to climb him or wrestle him to the floor, Jon could not tell. Hs husband took the renewed assault with another great boom of laughter and eagerly encouraged the attack.

Jon smiled at Bran, who was watching the interaction wistfully, “Would you like to join in the attack?”

Bran nodded, “I would, but I can’t. I can’t climb anymore.”

Jon’s smile widened into a grin, “Well I think I can help you with that.”

He reached down and picked his brother up, until he was perched high up on his back and then, with a quick calculation of the best place to attack, he charged and joined the fray. Bran shrieked with glee at the attack, at getting to join in with the rough housing and play of the others.

It ended when Tormund had grabbed Rickon’s ankle and dangled him upside down, “What should I do with this wildling, Yer Grace?” He asked Sansa in a surprisingly respectful tone.

Sansa moved her hand up to her mouth to cover the grin Jon knew she was sporting, “I don’t know. What do you think Tommen?”

The little Lannister copied Sansa’s pose, “I think the punishment for the wildling should be a bath!”

At the dreaded b-word Rickon started to struggle again, harder than before with no thought for the hard stone floor beneath his head, but Tormund did not drop him. He merely flung him over his shoulder and started to move out of the Hall, followed by Arya, who was trying to rescue Rickon, and a giggling Tommen. And as Jon settled Bran back in his chair so he could follow them himself he grinned at a lighter looking Sansa.

It was nice to be with his family again.

* * *

The Great Hall of Winterfell was so crowded it was hard to move, lords and ladies from all over the North, the Vale and the Riverlands packed it full, with almost every House sending at least one representative.

Jon counted himself lucky to be seated up on the High Table with the rest of his family, they had slightly more room than anyone else. Even Rickon was present, his legs swinging happily from his chair while he played with the bronze circlet that was supposed to sit upon his messy curls.

“Little over two weeks ago I received a raven from Dragonstone, a raven bearing not only the seal of House Targaryen but the signature of a Lannister.” Sansa announced in a cold tone, the derision she felt for the letter obvious, “A letter penned by Tyrion Lannister, bidding me to travel South and bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen to have my treasons forgiven.”

A roar of noise met her words, a roar of opinions and shouting from nearly every lord and lady present. No one was pleased with their Queen being called a traitor, no one wished to bow before a Targaryen or the Iron Throne ever again.

“We know no Queen but the Queen in the North whose name is Stark!” Lady Maege Mormont cried, a cry that was gladly taken up by many others.

Sansa let the shouting go on for a few minutes before holding up her hands to ask for quiet, “Peace, my lords and ladies, peace. I shall not travel South to treat with this conqueror from Essos, not when I am still needed here. But we cannot leave her missive unanswered. We cannot let her summons go uncommented on.”

The lords shifted in place once more and Jon thought that they might start to yell again but they quietened once Brynden stood.

“Aye, the Queen is right, we cannot let the Targaryen travel here looking for answers, not when she’s liable to bring her dragons with her. We must go to her, to prevent as much bloodshed on our own lands as we can. Let us give her as little excuse as possible to unleash her Dothraki on our people.”

A low murmur filled the hall, men agreeing with Brynden’s words. They had all heard of the destruction wrought by dragons and none wanted to tempt that into the lands that were only just recovering from the War of the Five Kings. Even fewer wanted to risk the Dothraki coming near their homes, their proclivity for looting, burning and rape were known by all, as was their skill in battle.

“But who will go?” Lord Royce of the Vale called out, “Who will treat with the Dragon Queen, if not you, Your Grace.”

“It cannot be someone too far from the throne,” Lord Blackwood called out, “Else she’s liable to take it as an insult.”

“It also cannot be someone too close,” Lord Bracken retorted, as ever at odds with Lord Blackwood, “Else she might be able to force a surrender.”

Lady Tyene stood next, “They’ll need to be able to work with King Stannis, any attempt to resist the Dragon Queen will need to be coordinated between us.”

Someone close to the throne, yet not able to surrender the kingdom for Sansa the way that Brynden or Rickon could. Someone Sansa trusted would work in her best interests, someone who could work with Baratheon if needs must. There were not many people who fit that set of criteria.

“If you are looking for volunteers, then I will go.” Jon stood up and looked his sister straight in the eye, “I’m of high enough rank that the Dragon Queen will not be offended, but I’m far enough back in line for the throne that she cannot force me to bend the knee.”

He steadfastly ignored the hurt look in Tormund’s eyes as he volunteered to go below the Neck again and instead focused entirely on Sansa as she slowly nodded.

A bolt of dread filled his stomach, what madness had he just volunteered himself for? He could only hope his Targaryen aunt was as reasonable as his half-brother.


	21. Sansa

Sansa called another meeting of all the lords the very next day after Jon had volunteered to go South, for she had received a raven that they all should know about.

“Earlier today we received a raven from King Stannis. He is sending a group to parlay with the Dragon Queen, with representatives from each of his Kingdoms. We have been invited to join, as has Queen Asha, to show a Westeros united against the threat she poses.” Sansa paused and looked around the room, “I have accepted this offer. If Daenerys Targaryen hopes to find easy prey in our separated continent then she will soon find herself mistaken.”

A cheer went up around the Hall, her lords agreeing with the decision Sansa had made. It was a relief to be sure, as she had been worried that an alliance with the South would cause problems with her more prideful lords.

“Your Grace, who would you send to Dragonstone? Who would you make your ambassadors?” Lord Royce called out from his position as SweetRobin’s representative.

“Prince Jon has already volunteered to go, and I would make him lead. Lord Royce, I would ask you to represent the Vale before the Dragon Queen, and Lord Piper I would ask you to represent the Riverlands.”

The lords bowed to her, their joy at being honoured in such a way evident, and yet Sansa could not help the feeling she was sending them to their deaths. That she was sending Jon to his death.

“I thank you all.” Sansa inclined her head to them, “You will leave for White Harbour by the end of the week, from which you will sail to Kings Landing.”

Lord Piper and Lord Royce bowed once more and Sansa watched as Jon exchanged a sorrowful look with his husband. She felt terrible for splitting them up, terrible for sending Jon away again, and yet she could not send Tormund South, not under her treaties with Mance Rayder and not when she had another task for him.

“Lady Karstark come forwards, Lord Tormund, Lord Hothor, I have a request to ask of you.” Sansa called out and the three moved to stand before her.

“Your Grace.” Lord Hothor Umber bowed before her, “How may I be of service?”

“I would ask you both to take some men and escort Lady Karstark back to Karhold. There you will install her in her rightful seat and arrest her uncles for refusing to answer the call of their Queen.”

Alys Karstark fell to her knees, “Thank you, Your Grace, thank you!”

Sansa smiled, “I am only sorry it has taken me so long to arrange.”

And she was, she had wanted to assist the lady when she had first arrived at Winterfell, and yet the War for the Dawn had been too close. They had not been able to spare the men to retake the Karhold and bring justice to Alys Karstark.

But now she could. Now was the time to arrange for the hold to be secured, so that the whole of her kingdom stood united against the threat of dragon fire.

And if her reign was to be shortened just as Torrhen Stark’s was, well, then she could at least be assured she had done something good while she had the power to do so.

Once Lady Karstark, Lord Hothor and Tormund had returned to their places Sansa spoke once more, in the same solemn voice she had used when sending her people off to battle.

“My lords and my ladies, I thank you for coming to Winterfell, for answering my call. It may be that soon we are fighting another war, that we are preparing to lay down our lives or our pride to safeguard our people.” Sansa met each lord’s eyes in turn as she spoke. “It may be, that like my ancestor Torrhen Stark, I will have to bend the knee to ensure your safety, to ensure your children’s safety. And if it comes to that then I will. But we shall do all in our power to prevent that, to keep our lands free and independent of the Iron Throne and the Targaryen invaders as they were for thousands of years!”

Every lord, every lady, every man, woman, and child in that hall shot to their feet. They pounded fists upon the tables and weapons upon the floor and let out a great cheer.

“The Queen of Winter! The Queen of Winter! The Queen of Winter!”

* * *

“Come on, we’re going to have a nice family meal while Jon’s here.” Arya dragged Sansa out of her office once dusk started to fall.

Sansa grinned to herself and made all her limbs go limp, in the trick Arya had used to use on their mother when she had tried to force her to do something. Arya stumbled and nearly fell as soon as she did, and her little sister turned to her with a deep scowl.

“This isn’t funny Sansa.”

“It is to me.”

Arya huffed and a sly grin overtook her face. Sansa soon realised why when her legs were taken out from behind and she found herself flung over Bran’s lap.

“Did you two plan this?” She accused, trying to make her position a little more dignified.

Arya and Bran exchanged grins. “No.” They chorused insincerely.

It was Sansa’s turn to huff in exasperation at her siblings’ antics. She knew they had planned this, but she could not bring herself to care.

They were in the family quarters of Winterfell, so no lords would see her in such an undignified position. And it was fun, to be playing with her siblings, to have them acting as though little had changed, like father and mother and Robb were all still alive.

There was a sort of joy filling the whole interaction, infectious in its own way and when Arya flung open the door to the family solar to admit them Brynden and Jon and Tormund all burst into laughter at the sight they made.

“Are you becoming a horse as well as a raven Bran?” Jon grinned.

Bran stuck his nose up in the air, “I was dragged into this by Arya.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Uncle Brynden said wryly, “It’s usually Arya or Rickon who is the instigator.”

Sansa slid off of her perch on Bran’s lap and smoothed her skirts in an attempt to gain some dignity. It was likely a lost cause, and would be a moment that her family would bring up for years to come, but she didn’t mind. It had been fun.

Rickon and Tommen barrelled into the room almost as soon as her feet touched the floor, giggling and running as little boys do. It was sweet to see them act as such, sweet to see Tommen free to be a child and sweet to see Rickon acting like a normal boy instead of half a wolf.

They all sat around the great table that had been mother’s, one where she had corralled them into family meals and lessons. There had been relief in all of their hearts to see it had survived, for it had held many fond memories.

Arya had obviously planned this meal with quite some forethought, for a maid brought in all of their favourite dishes. There was even a small platter of lemoncakes, set right before Sansa, despite how expensive lemons were to get hold of.

Brynden caught her eye when they were placed down and smiled reassuringly, “A shipment from Highgarden, a gift accompanying a letter.”

Sansa smiled, she had been worried about Brynden becoming lonely without Prince Oberyn there, but it seemed he still had correspondence with others if the ravens flying to and from Highgarden were any indication.

“Thank you.” She said instead of any of her worries about cost, “Thank you for arranging this Arya. Especially as it will be the last meal we’ll all have together for a while.”

Chatter stopped. They all turned to look at her.

“I know I’m going.” Jon said slowly, “But who else is?”

Sansa raised her head higher, almost feeling the crown despite it not being on her brow.

“Tormund, I would as a second favour of you.” She said instead of answering directly.

Tormund’s eyes narrowed suspiciously but he nodded.

“When you return to the Dreadfort I would ask that Bran, Rickon and Tommen accompany you.” An uproar from the youngest three met her words, complaints falling from their lips but Sansa ignored them, “I would also ask, that if Winterfell falls to dragon fire, if I burn with it, that you take them Beyond the Wall and raise them alongside your own girls.”

She would do everything she could to prevent that, but preparations had to be made. She would not let her baby brothers or her ward burn.

“Aye, Yer Grace. I will do that.” Tormund agreed with none of the usual levity in his voice.

“Why isn’t Arya coming too?” Rickon shouted, “This isn’t fair!”

“Arya is remaining because she is my Master of Whispers. I need her here and she has argued to be here.” Sansa softened her voce, “I do not want to send you away, little brother, but I want you to burn even less.”

Jon nodded, “It is a good plan. And besides Rickon, you like spending time with Torva and Munda. Now you have a whole castle full of new people to torment as well.”

Rickon pouted but settled down, the fact he was not being sent to the Eyrie this time likely had sweetened the news for him. Bran was worryingly quiet though.

“Bran? What do you think?” Sansa asked tentatively.

Bran blinked slowly, “I agree with Jon. It is a good plan. I want some ravens though. So if I see anything I can tell you quickly.”

Sansa smiled in relief, “Of course. That would be most helpful, thank you.”

Brynden cleared his throat, “Now that this is settled, I expect no dung hidden in rooms or direwolves scratching in the middle of the night.”

Arya’s face lit up at the memory of the pranks they had pulled on Brynden, and as she began to recount them to a confused Tommen the mood lightened once more.

Sansa took a bite of lemoncake as the giggles started up again and savoured the moment. Hopefully this would not be the final time they were all together.

* * *

Sansa had called Jon to her office to make arrangements for his trip South, she had put him in charge and she would ensure he was as prepared as he could be. She and Brynden had already written documents conferring upon Jon the authority to make decisions in her name, and she needed to ensure his eyes were open as to the situation he was walking into.

“Jon you need to promise me you will not forget what happened to our Grandfather and Uncle, you will not forget that they were burnt alive by this woman’s father. If the Mad King could do that with normal flames, what will she do with the dragons she claims to control?” Sansa may have had little choice in sending her brother South but she would make sure he was prepared, “This may be a trap, a way to try and force us to our knees with you as a hostage.”

Jon looked at her steadily, “If she does hold me hostage then do not listen to her. My life is not worth more than the people of the North, the freedom of our people.”

Sansa’s eyes welled up with tears and she reached out to him, “Why would you ask me to promise that? Why would you make me swear such I thing when I know the terror of being a hostage?”

Jon moved closer and encircled her in the protective wall of his arms, “It is because you know the terror of being a hostage that I ask this of you. You and Arya and Rickon and Bran are more important than me, our people are more important than me.”

Sansa wanted to protest but she knew the truth of his words. The kingdom was more important than one person, no matter how loved that person was. And at least he was more prepared for such an eventuality than she had been.

“Fine.” Sansa eventually whispered, “I will not bend the knee to have you returned to us. But I will do everything else in my power to get you back.”

She could tell Jon had smiled even if she could not see it, could hear it in the thanks he whispered against her hair.

“You need to know exactly what is acceptable to promise to the Dragon Queen.” Sansa slipped put of Jon’s grip and crossed to her desk where a list already lay. “We will not bend the knee, nor will we aid her in the removal of Stannis Baratheon or Asha Greyjoy from their thrones.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “I would have thought those conditions were obvious.”

Sansa grinned, “They are rather, but it is better to state them so that there can be no talk of confusion. Should the Dragon Queen wish to make a deal outside of those conditions then I trust you to use your best judgement and to send a raven if need be.”

Jon smiled, “Of course. You can trust me on this. I won’t let you, or the North, down.”

With that set of instructions done Sansa moved back into her brother’s arms, savouring the way that they took the weight of the crown off her shoulders for a few moments.

A sudden thought occurred to her and she pulled back enough to be able to meet his eyes.

“Oh, and don’t even think about letting her suggest upholding the now broken betrothal between myself and Lord Tyrion Lannister. And if he suggests it, please punch him for me.”

Her brother laughed, “I would not dream of it. Although punching her Hand might put a dampener on negotiations.”

Sansa could not hold in her pout, “That’s true. Maybe just ‘accidentally’ spill wine or hot food over his head then.”

“Aye, that I can do.”

* * *

_Lady Daenerys of House Targaryen,_

_An envoy from the winter Kingdoms shall soon be arriving at the Keep you have displaced your nephew from._

_My brother, Prince Jon of House Stark will lead the delegation. I expect he and his associates will be treated with the full honours he is entitled to under Westerosi custom._

_Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, the Vale and the Riverlands, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protecter of the Realm, Queen of Winter._


	22. Brynden

As much as it made sense for Jon to be the one to travel South and treat with the Dragon Queen, there were also issues to be contended with. While the lad seemed to understand Northern politics well, and even had a fair grasp on those of the Vale and Riverlands, he was in no way prepared to face the type of politics and game play of Varys and Tyrion Lannister.

Brynden could only hope what little knowledge and warning he was able to impart would be enough to forestall any disasters and keep the lad safe.

“I’ve been South before; you know I have.” Jon protested.

Brynden sighed, “Aye, you’ve been South. But you haven’t had to be alone and deal with politics while South. They aren’t like Northern politics, not even like Riverlands or Vale politics, especially not when the Dragon Queen has the Imp and Varys at her side.”

Someone needed to warn the lad and ensure he did not fall from the same tricks as his father had.

He held up a hand before Jon could protest further and made sure to look him directly in the eyes.

“And you do not know how an official parlay should go, only the miniature ones that go before a battle.”

Jon subsided at that reminder, as Brynden knew he would, instead he looked up at him expectantly, his face pulled into the same expression it held when they discussed tactics and running a keep. It was the face that Jon wore when he was fully listening and learning and Brynden was pleased to see it.

“A true parlay should negate the need for a war entirely, and had your father not been killed by the Lannisters it is likely what we would have suggested Robb attempt with them. The introduction should use your full titles and honours, they may not take your weaponry, and almost as soon as the introductions are done you should be offered the rite of guest right.”

“And what if I’m not? What does that mean?”

Brynden was pleased that Jon asked that question, that he would not be blindly caught in such a trap.

“That means that you are hostages and the Dragon Queen will have declared war on every corner of Westeros for calling ambassadors there under false pretences. She should know this, and if she does not then Varys and the Imp certainly should. Do not let her plead ignorance, but be polite.”

Jon nodded slowly, and Brynden could tell he was taking the information in, that he was focusing on what could go wrong in the attempt at negotiations and what it would mean for his family.

“And if I become a hostage? If that happens then I refuse for men to be sent after me.”

Pride swirled through Brynden’s chest at the strength behind those words, at the way that Jon understood the difficult decisions that must sometimes be made in war time.

“If you are a hostage then you do not need to behave for your captors. It may be safer for you to, as it was for Sansa in Kings Landing, but you do not have to behave. You can cause as much trouble for them as you want, because you are not beholden to them, you do not owe them anything.” Brynden looked Jon straight in the eye to make sure his next words were heard and understood to be of importance, “If you are a hostage then you cannot negotiate anything. If you are a hostage then you cannot be made to bend the knee and have it be meaningful.”

Jon nodded, “I understand. So if the Dragon Queen tries to make me bend the knee by threatening me with her dragons, then it will have no effect on the rest of the North?”

“Exactly.” Brynden clasped Jon’s arm and pulled him into a rough embrace, “You do and you say whatever you have to in order to stay safe, and none of us will hold it over your head when you return.”

Jon let out a shuddering breath and relaxed a little in his hold, some of the tension that had been in the lad since his volunteering finally being released.

“You’ll keep Sansa and Arya safe, won’t you?” Jon asked in a quiet voice, “I know Tormund will look after Bran and Rickon but why did Arya have to remain?”

Brynden held the lad a little tighter, “She didn’t want to leave Sansa alone. Arya knows that I might have to leave if war is declared, and she did not want Sansa to be without family. Arya might pretend otherwise but she has as soft a heart as any of you.”

“I know that.” Jon grinned, “Have you seen her face when she gets a letter from Robin or Gendry? It’s the same sort of expression Sansa gets when she talks about Margaery Tyrell.”

Brynden had not realised that Arya had the same expression for both of them, that was something to be worried about in the future. Or perhaps not, for he recalled the near hero worship that Robin had shown to both Arya and Gendry while he was at Winterfell. Loving two people was not common in Westeros, but if Oberyn demonstrated anything, it was that it was entirely possible.

“None of you are going to have traditional marriages, are you?” Brynden sighed, although he truly did not care overly much about it as long as they were all happy.

“There’s hope for Bran and Rickon. Although Bran does appear to be enamoured with both of the Reeds.”

“Lady Meera is near a decade older than him!”

Jon had laughter in his voice as he spoke, “And Bran looks to her as though she has hung the moon. Whenever she walks past, he looks at her like Rickon and Shaggydog look at a platter of sweets. It is rather sweet really.”

Brynden shook his head, “Am I right to assume that your father did not discuss the marriage bed with your brothers before he left?”

Jon nodded against his chest and then stepped back, out of his hold, “You’ve done it before though, with me, and that didn’t go too badly.”

That was little comfort for the realisation that he would have to have the discussion with nearly all his nieces and nephews, including Sansa for he was sure the Lannisters had filled her head with all sorts of nonsense.

“You know, I am almost pleased to be going South and avoiding that conversation.” Jon said, and more than ever the expression on his face showed how similar he was to Arya.

* * *

There was something enjoyable, and yet lonely about exchanging letters with Willas and Oberyn. A sort of strange loneliness that filled Brynden’s chest whenever he received a letter from Highgarden or Sunspear. He treasured each letter, and yet they filled him with a longing for company which was not his nephews and nieces.

He had not taken up Oberyn’s advice, to find a Free Folk man or Northerner to find companionship with. It would have felt too much like he was abusing his position as Hand of the Queen, and besides he found himself not particularly attracted to the heavy set and bearded men anyway.

Brynden preferred men who were quick with their minds, lithe and graceful; not broad shouldered warriors.

He did find himself wishing that Willas was a little less quick witted though, when the latest letter arrived adorned with the Tyrell rose. It seemed as though his loneliness had been picked up on by the heir to Highgarden, and that Willas had decided to do something about it.

_‘My dear Blackfish,_

_I write this to you from Oldtown, where I shall board a ship in the morning, one which will take me as far as White Harbour. I know that now is perhaps not the best time to be traveling North, but it may be my only chance!_

_Forgive me, that was far too bleak._

_I would like to see the castle which was described to my sister with such wistful longing that she can still recount it perfectly. I should like to mee the girl who has entranced my sister enough to have her stumbling over her words._

_I would like to see you, once more, as I have found myself feeling rather left out whilst you gallivanted around Westeros with Oberyn._

_With fair winds behind us and the Gods in our favour, I should arrive in White Harbour within a fortnight. I pray you will not be too angry with my unexpected visit._

_Willas._

_Post script: I have made arrangements for lemons and arbour gold as a tribute to your queen, little Margaery tells me she is fond of lemons in particular.’_

It was poor timing, as they prepared for an invasion of their lands and a threat to their sovereignty, and yet Brynden found he was more pleased than anything. It would be nice to have company once more, and even more so to have Willas’ quick mind for aid as they planned.

* * *

Brynden called Bran to his solar, two days before he and Rickon were due to depart for the Dreadfort. They had much to discuss before he left, and a need to clear up why Bran was being sent away, for he knew his nephew was still confused over it.

“I know you have questions, little one.” Brynden said, as he poured them both a cup of tea, “Ask them and I shall answer.”

“Why am I being sent away this time?” Bran whispered.

Brynden cupped the back of his head, “Because we want you to stay safe. Because we could not bear to see you burn in dragon fire.”

“But you did not care if the Others took me, you did not send me away as you did Arya and Rickon. Why is now so different?”

His heart clenched at those words, at the pain that filled his young nephew’s voice. Did Bran truly think they thought so little of him? Did he truly believe that they would have abandoned him to the Others?”

He kept cupping the back of Bran’s head and made sure to look him directly in the eyes, “We would have never let the Others get you, sweet boy. There was a ship waiting at White Harbour to aid your escape, just as there was at the Fingers, all through the War for the Dawn.”

Neither Bran nor Sansa had been told of this, for Brynden and Jon had known that they would fight against it, would protest such a measure to keep them safe, insisting that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Ellaria had been told, and Tyene, and they had trusted that they would get Sansa and Bran to safety had the Wall fallen.

Some may have called it treason to hide such a thing from the queen, Brynden called it saving her from her own stubbornness.

Bran blinked at him with wet eyes, and Brynden handed him a handkerchief as he turned to give the lad a moment of privacy. He would not scold Bran for crying, neither would he make him feel ashamed for it by watching with perceived impatience. Instead he busied himself by placing a small cake on a plate to go with the tea he had poured.

When he judged that Bran had likely composed himself, Brynden turned around and gave him the tea and cake, something sweet and comforting to soothe and reassure him.

“If all our attempts fail and the Dragon Queen flies North to burn us all, then you and Rickon and Arya must flee to the True North. You must flee to safety, so that the lives of those lost who have defended the freedom of the North is not truly in vain. The Northern lords have been instructed to wait, to watch and wait for the Dragon Queen to become slow and secure in her throne before taking vengeance and restoring you three to your rightful places.”

“The North remembers.” Bran said softly and slowly, a look of understanding on his face.

“Aye, and while fire may burn hot for a time, Winter will always come. You just need to be patient.” Brynden confirmed. He was pleased Bran had understood the plan so quickly, pleased that he would be able to temper the fury of his siblings should it come to that.

Bran settled, taking a sip from his tea and a bite from his cake. It seemed that Brynden had soothed his fears, which was good as he was not yet finished with his reasoning for calling for Bran.

“Now, there was another reason I asked for you, a deficit in your education that should be filled.” Brynden smirked at the slight fear on Bran’s face, “Now that you are near a man there is a discussion that we must have. Especially since you already appear to be interested in members of the fairer sex.”


	23. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this is a final warning for everyone: This fic is not Daenerys friendly. This fic is not Tyrion friendly. I have given enough warning that I would really appreciate it that if this offends you, you stop reading rather than tell me. Thank you!

“I said it before, and I will say it again, Little Crow.” Tormund said intensely, looking straight into Jon’s eyes, “If you die in the South, I will find a fucking Red Witch to bring you back again so I can kill you myself.”

Jon reached up and touch Tormund’s cheek, “I will do all I can not to die, but she does have three dragons. It might not be something I can help.”

Tormund pulled him closer and pressed a fierce kiss against his lips, one of his hands tangled in Jon’s hair, the other pressed against the small of his back.

“You will come back to me.” He muttered, biting at Jon’s lip with every word, “You will come home. If the White Walkers did not get you, then a dragon will not.”

Jon pressed himself against his husband, taking comfort and strength from the feel of those hard muscles that shifted beneath his furs.

“I will do my best.” He whispered back against Tormund’s lips, “But I cannot promise anything.”

“You might be a Stark, little crow, and a Wolf.” Tormund pushed him so that the back of his knees knocked against the bedframe, “But you also hold Dragon blood, do you not?”

Jon fell and sat upon the bed, his husband towering over him, crowding him and making him feel safe with his bulk. “Aye.”

“If a Wolf can control a wolf, like you and yer siblings.” Tormund pressed a punishing kiss against Jon’s mouth, “Then why can a Dragon not also control a dragon. If yer aunt can do it, then maybe you too can.”

Jon gasped, his mind whirling with the possibilities, “You mean?”

“Aye.” Tormund pushed him flat on the bed and ran a hand up beneath his tunic, “Yer a Warg, Jon. Use it.”

Jon curled a hand through Tormund’s hair and dragged his face down so that he might plant a kiss of his own, he would think over Tormund’s word later. Think over the idea of trying to steal a dragon from underneath the Dragon Queen’s nose.

But for now he was more interested in saying a proper goodbye to his husband before yet another long separation.

* * *

Duskendale was not the great port town that Jon had heard about before the wars that had ravaged Westeros, but it was healing. There were fresh stones atop the walls, and new tiles upon rooftops. Houses built among their neighbours where before there had obviously been destruction. More than that though, the people looked like they were starting to heal, with children running and shrieking joyfully in the streets and women walking around without fear on their faces.

He would not be spending even a single night in the town, but it was reassuring to see how it had started to heal. To see that Westeros had started to heal.

It was sobering as well, to think that all the people’s efforts might be in vain if their mission failed and the Dragon Queen chose war over peace.

Jon had been told that he would be met at the docks by Ser Davos and the rest of the delegation that would be travelling to Dragonstone, a united front shown between the kingdoms. A visual signal that no one wanted the Dragon Queen on their shores.

A grin found its way to his face as he spotted another waiting for Ser Davos, he had hoped that Theon would be the Iron Island’s emissary, and it seemed like his hopes had been answered. It looked like his time on the Iron Islands had done Theon some good, he had a little more meat on his bones and he had more confidence in his posture than he did when he left Winterfell.

“How was your mother?”

Theon looked away, “She isn’t very well. She kept calling me Rodrick, I don’t think she has long left. It was sweet to see her though, I had missed her a great deal.”

Jon barely even thought about it before pulling Theon into a hug. It was what Robb would have done, what Sansa would have done, and no matter their past differences, he would not stand by while Theon was in pain. Theon relaxed into his hold, the stiff lines of his shoulders and spine softening ever so slightly.

“You should go back to her after this.” Jon said softly, “Spend as much time with her as you can. If it gets too much though, we will be happy to have you back with us all. I think Bran misses having you tutor him in archery.”

Theon smirked weakly, a shade of the old him, the him from when father was alive on his face. “Well, he has to learn it from someone, and really Snow, you just aren’t good enough.”

Jon thumped him lightly on the arm, still too relieved at Theon’s healing to care much for the insult.

“Fucker.” He said fondly.

Amused laughter had them turning to a grinning Ser Davos, “If you boys are quite finished, I believe we are expected on Dragonstone soon enough, and we have preparations to go over before then.”

Jon felt almost like a chastised little boy again, almost like his father had caught he and Theon bickering in the training yards again. And from the familiar guilty way that Theon ducked his head, he felt the same way.

Ser Davos shook his head fondly, “Come, we will discuss our liege’s demands on bard ship. The Black Bertha will be a damn sight more private than the dockyard.”

Ser Davos’ ship was aptly named, its sails and hull were as black as tar. It was steady though, and Jon was glad he did not feel the same sickness as Sansa did aboard ship, so that he might enjoy being atop deck.

Not that it seemed he would get much time up there, for almost immediately they were directed to a room containing a great table where they might plan. There were other nobles already sequestered in there, ones from the Crownlands and Westerlands, the Reach and Dorne, ones who were there to represent their kingdoms before the Dragon Queen on behalf of King Stannis, some of which looked rather unimpressed to be led in such an endeavour by Ser Davos. Lord Royce and Lord Piper greeted those that they knew, whether from a tourney, Robert’s Rebellion, or from the Battle for the Dawn.

“Brother.” Aegon stood and clasped him on the shoulder, in a move that reminded Jon of Robb and how he had used to act. It did not fill him with pain though, and Jon realised that he was starting to heal from the pain Robb’s death had caused.

“Brother.” He replied, unable to refuse a familial connection when they were about to be dealing with the person that many would claim was the last true Targaryen.

“I am not surprised you sister sent you to treat with our aunt,” Aegon said softly, “I suppose it was likely for similar reasons why King Stannis sent me. Our very existence removes all her claim of birth-right to any throne in Westeros.”

“Aye, that was likely part of Sansa and Uncle Brynden’s plan.” Jon nodded, “Although I believe it was more that there was no one else that they could send. none of my other siblings are old enough, and to send anyone else might be seen as an insult.”

A rakish grin crossed Aegon’s face, “Well let’s hope she doesn’t burn the both of us to remove the threat we pose.”

* * *

Dragonstone was an imposing castle, one whose dark towers rose above the sea jaggedly, like the blackened bones of some great creature. The seas around it were rough, and Jon found himself so very grateful for the presence of Ser Davos and Theon, if the two of them were unconcerned by the roughness of the waves then he too would not be.

The beaches were made up of dark pebbles, the same rock that formed the spires of the keep, interspaced with shining pebbles of dragonglass.

A familiar figure waited for them on the shoreline, one surrounded by men in rough furs holding curved blades, and accompanied by a beautiful woman dressed in dark leathers that did little to hide her shivering.

“The Bastard of Winterfell, Prince Turncloak, and the Onion Knight.” Tyrion Lannister said, a smirk upon his face. “And is that Young Griff as well I spy? What a strange group indeed.”

None of them responded to him, no one wished to trade barbs with a traitor. Jon could not help but notice the differences in the man before him, a man he had last seen having wanted to piss of the edge of the Wall, one who was now scarred and older looking, a Hand pinned to the front of his black doublet.

“We have come to speak with my aunt, not trade barbs, Lord Tyrion.” Aegon said roughly, his temper and impatience showing through.

“Of course, of course. May I present Missandei? She is the Queen’s most trusted adviser.”

The woman, Missandei, nodded her head to them, “Welcome to Dragonstone. Our Queen knows it is not the shortest nor easiest journey, she appreciates the efforts you have made on her behalf.” She looked between them all, her gaze lingering on Longclaw at Jon’s hip and the quiver slung over Theon’s shoulder, “If you wouldn’t mind handing over your weapons.”

They all exchanged glances, and Brynden’s words spun through Jon’s mind, did the Dragon Queen really wish to declare war before even meeting the delegation she had asked for? He put out a hand as Aegon was about to hand over his sword, halting him and drawing attention his way.

“Does you queen mean to declare war so soon then?” Jon asked, making his voice sound confused rather than accusatory, “I was under the impression she had called us here to act as ambassadors for the kingdoms of Westeros, rather than hostages.”

Lannister and Lady Missandei exchanged glances, they had obviously not expected or prepared for such a query. It was a sign of weakness, an acknowledgment that either they did not know how an official parlay was supposed to work, or a sign that they underestimated them all greatly.

“Our Queen did call you here to be ambassadors, that is true.” Lannister eventually said with a defeated slump of his shoulders, “You may keep your weaponry.”

Jon nodded in thanks, as did the other lords of their retinue, although he did not like the way that Tyrion Lannister had spoken as though he was doing them some great favour.

“Come, this way.” Lady Missandei said. She turned and started to walk up the beach, and they all followed her, taking note of the Dothraki who watched them carefully.

Ser Davos quickened his pace so he was beside Lady Missandei, “My Lady, tell me, where are you from? I cannot place your accent.”

“I was born on the island of Naath.” Lady Missandei answered, her head turned just enough that Jon could see a gentle smile on her face.

“Ahh, I hear its beautiful there. Palm trees and butterflies, I haven’t been myself though.”

Something softened in the lady’s bearing, and the smile on her face was evident to all. It was a piece of well-done flattery, and Jon could recall seeing Sansa do something similar with the lords.

The rest of their journey, up the beach and onto the many stone steps leading up to the castle passed almost in silence, up until Lannister approached Jon and started to speak.

“I hear that your little sister, that Sansa, is alive and thriving in the North.” Tyrion Lannister said in a tone that made Jon want to punch him, “We were betrothed you know. Would have been married if it were not for the Blackwater.”

“I did know, my lord.” It took incredible restraint not to yell at Lannister that Sansa was a child, that she should not have been betrothed to him at all, not to a man more than double her age.

“She’s much smarter than she lets on, you know. Has a rather marvellous brain to go with her beautiful face.”

Jon growled, “The whole of the Winter Kingdoms knows exactly how smart my sister is. Its amazing really, what being free from captivity will do for someone’s confidence.”

Lannister let out a little chuckle, “Good. You know, someday I would like to hear the tory of how a Night’s Watch recruit became a Prince, and a Queen-maker if all I have heard is true.”

That would not be a terrible story to tell, and one that might make Lannister take Jon’s family a little more seriously. “Only if you tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“To be honest, I was drunk for most of it.” Lannister said, lowly as though he was sharing some great secret.

Jon nearly rolled his eyes, Lannister’s play was so obvious that even he could see it, he wanted them to underestimate him, wanted to play on perceived notions of friendship to make them lower their guard.

“Well that isn’t surprising.” Theon interjected. He briefly brushing his hand against Jon’s arm, in a move too small to be seen by anyone else, but one which reassured Jon all the same.

“I am surprised to see you here, Theon Greyjoy. Surprised to see you with your head as well. Your Queen is certainly brave to trust a turncloak.”

“Theon has suffered enough for turning on Robb, he made a choice that I doubt many of us would make differently. Both Queens that he serves have forgiven him any past transgressions, the families that he harmed have forgiven him any past transgressions.” Jon spoke up in ardent defence of Theon.

“You know, I was surprised to see you here, Jon. Stark’s do not do well in the South in my experience.” Lannister said, obviously trying to move the conversation onwards by tactfully changing the topic to Jon’s dead father, brother, uncle, mother, and grandfather.

“Aye,” Jon agreed, “But I am not just a Stark.”

He was saved from hearing the comment that Tyrion Lannister would undoubtedly make, thinking himself clever, when the thundering clap of wings and the sound of a ferocious roar filled the air.

They all ducked, and Jon felt a panic he had not since seeing the legions of wights from on top of the Wall. Dragons soared over their heads, one white, one green, and one black. Jon was awed and terrified by the sight, it had been Robb and Arya who had loved the tales of them as children, but he had heard them all the same and truly the descriptions and drawing did not compare to the real thing.

“You never quite get used to them.” Lannister said with rare honesty in his voice.

Jon could believe him with little difficulty.

“Come.” Lady Missandei said once more, “The Queen is waiting.”

“I had heard of them, of course, but I had never truly believed.” Aegon whispered, moving closer to Jon as they started to walk once more, “Jon used to tell me stories of them, of dragons and the ancestors who had wielded them. He told me that Rhaenys had owned a kitten that she named after Balerion, the greatest of them all.”

A sort of warmth filled his chest at the anecdote, for Jon was ashamed to say he had thought little on his half-sister who had been murdered before he was born. It was strangely nice to hear something about her, to hear something other than the gruesome way in which she died.

He might never be close with Aegon, but now with their aunt on the shores of Westeros he could not deny their relation.

Up close the castle of Dragonstone was even more intimidating with its black rock shot through with seams of dragonglass, and its jagged spires which seemed to reach up to the clouds themselves. It had not been built to keep out the winter as Winterfell had, nor had it been built as a show of wealth and power as the Red Keep had, no, Dragonstone had been built purely to be intimidating enough to match the dragons that had resided within.

The whole castle was dark, inside and out, with alcoves decorated with gold and gems lit by torches as they passed through the corridors, but no tapestries or rugs did line them, no portraits or painting, instead it all seemed to be mosaics formed from precious metals looted from those who had been conquered.

Ser Dvaos seemed almost at home within its walls, and Jon recalled that he had lived there once, serving Stannis Baratheon when it had been his own home. Aegon did as well, but then, it was his castle, his principality, his own home which had been taken by the Dragon Queen.

Aegon hid the anger he must have been feeling well as they entered the throne room, as they got their first look at the woman who had taken his home. As they got the first look at their aunt. As they got the first look at the Dragon Queen.

The girl was small, dwarfed entirely by the dark rock that made up her throne. Her pale hair was the lightest thing in the room, shining in the dull light of the torches. Her outfit was obviously made by someone who had never seen Westerosi fashion, all straight lines and harsh points on the shoulders, black and red and foreign looking.

Jon could not help but compare her to his sister and the other monarchs he had seen. They had all dressed in ways to indicate all the kingdoms they ruled over, even Cersei Lannister had included Northern flowers on her gowns when she visited Winterfell. It was bizarre to him then, to see that she truly only showcased the designs of Essos and the Targaryen colours, it was almost as though she did not care for Westeros and its people except as a trophy or a jewel to add to her collection.

She smiled upon seeing them, a smug smile, one that did not reach her eyes. At the base of her throne stood a man in leather armour, and a portly man who fitted Sansa’s descriptions of Lord Varys. Tyrion Lannister and Lady Missandei moved to join them, the Dragon Queen’s court standing united against the ambassadors they had requested.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The Protector of the Realm. Queen of Meeren, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt. Kneel before her.”


	24. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a Dragonstone chapter I'm afraid, although the next one will be. I can honestly say that I was blown away by the response to the previous chapter, so thank you all so much!

Arya missed having Jon and Bran and Rickon around. She loved Sansa, she really did, but they did not share many of the same interests at all and her sister seemed to always be busy running her kingdoms.

And as for Tommen? Well, he was sweet in his own way, but he did not enjoy the rough play that Arya usually did with her siblings and they had very little in common. She would spend time with him, because otherwise he would be lonely, but she could tell that he too was missing Bran and Jon and Rickon.

The absurd thought came to her that Robin would quite like Tommen, that the to of them would likely get on quite well for they both disliked outdoor pursuits. Except, likely they already knew one another, for Robin had spent some years in Kings Landing before his father’s death and they were of the same age.

Perhaps she would be able to convince Sansa and Uncle Brynden to let Robin visit them in Winterfell, or maybe to allow her to bring Tommen along when she next visited the Eyrie. He was supposed to be kept in Winterfell as a hostage for Ser Jaime’s good behaviour, but she doubted anyone would mind if he went on a short visit to the Vale, after all Theon had joined Father and Robb when they went to White Harbour sometimes.

But that was something to worry about when the Dragon Queen was gone, Arya was more concerned with ensuring that the people of the North continued to look favourable upon Sansa and trying to find out what rumours were being spread in Westeros that might be useful for them to know.

Her bards would visit in a rotation, one that only she and Lyanna knew. Sometimes they would go to Winterfell and Wintertown, other times they would go to Bear Island. And always they would bring with them scrolls and ciphers from other bards they had met on their travels, news from other parts of the kingdoms, it was a far more complicated system than Littlefinger’s whores had been, and was almost as effective as Lord Varys’ little birds.

Arya was very proud of it.

And if, in addition to the news they brought, if a steady rotation of bards made Sansa’s face light up with happiness, well that was just a bonus really.

She and Lyanna were already working on new songs, ones that they prayed they would not have to release. One which told of Torrhen Stark and his sacrifice, one which reminded people of the lack of casualties in the North compared to the other kingdoms during the Conquest. And one which told the story of the destruction of the North, of a tyrant coming in and burning those who did not accept her rule, one which reminded everyone that the wolves would come again.

They desperately hoped that they would not be needed, but had made preparations anyway. Lyanna knew when they were to be released should Winterfell fall or the Crown of Winter be lain aside once more.

If they lost then at least some of history would be written by them.

* * *

In Arya’s very well-informed opinion, Ser Jaime Lannister, the pride of Tywin Lannister, the Lord of the Westerlands, and the infamous Kingslayer, was an absolute idiot.

Of course, this realisation could have come after a number of his actions, and it had in fact, but she really did think this action was the one deserving of the title ‘idiot-worthy’.

He was still attempting to court Brienne, even while he was at Casterly Rock and she was in Winterfell, except it really did not seem like he was very good at it at all. he kept sending her long letters and gifts by way of courier, only sometimes it seemed like he was confusing Brienne with either Cersei or one of the Kingsguard.

The gifts were either ridiculously impractical and gaudy jewels, heavy chokers of gold studied with garnets, or filigree and ruby hairnets that seemed as though they would break upon being touched. Else he might send a coat of mail, or a mace with a lion’s head as the pommel. Brienne did seem to appreciate the gifts, and yet she looked baffled by them all.

She had no use for the heavy jewellery, for chokers were decidedly not her style and her hair was nowhere near long enough for a hair net. And while she liked the mail and the mace, they weren’t very romantic at all.

In truth it had become a bit of a game among the squires, guessing what the next gift would be and how unsuitable it was. Arya did not really want to join in, feeling like she was betraying Brienne to do so, and yet she could not help herself.

A courier riding up the road from White Harbour was always a sight which prompted excitement on Arya’s part, because any message from Ser Jaime made Brienne happy, even if she was also confused, and a happy Brienne was one who had a lot more patience for Arya’s shenanigans.

And more patience for Arya’s shenanigans was always a good thing, especially now she could no longer blame Rickon for them.

“Lady Brienne.” The courier bowed to her after handing over a small pile of scrolls to one of the page boys to take up to Sansa and Brynden. “I have a package and a letter for you, from Lord Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

He handed over the parcel with a flourish and a sense of trepidation filled the courtyard as everyone waited to see what Ser Jaime had sent this time and how wildly inappropriate it would be.

The box was long and thin, looking more like the box for jewellery than anything else. For a moment Arya had a bolt of fear that it would be another gaudy jewel, something that Brienne would hate although she would never say so, but then she pulled out the object within the box and Arya’s fears dissipated.

It was a dagger, slightly longer than was usual, with perhaps the most beautiful hilt and scabbard that Arya had ever seen. It was wrapped in a sapphire blue leather, almost the exact colour of Brienne’s eyes she noted with a smile, and golden suns, moons, and lions pranced around on its surface. When Brienne drew it from its sheath it glittered in the weak sun and it was obvious that its blade was wickedly sharp.

It was perfect.

A light filled Brienne’s eyes and a smile lit up her face as she gazed down at this latest courting gift with something almost like reverence. It was practical and beautiful and in no way ostentatious. It was probably the first gift she had received that she actually liked.

When the other squires turned away from gawping at Brienne’s reaction to the gift, Arya smirked, it seemed like her letter to Ser Jaime had worked as planned.

* * *

Sansa was all anxious, trying to prepare Winterfell for the visit of Willas Tyrell. Arya did not really understand it, because Willas had been coming to see Uncle Brynden not any of them, but she supported her sister nonetheless. If she didn’t support Sansa, she feared her sister would worry herself into an early grave or start finding grey hairs sooner than expected.

Arya also supposed that the reason Sansa was so anxious was because she was trying to distract herself from the thought of the Dragon Queen and how Jon was alone down there.

Well not _alone_ alone, he had Theon and Ser Davos and Aegon and all the other ambassadors, but he didn’t have Ghost with him. He didn’t have Arya or Sansa or Tormund. Arya was just as scared as Sansa, but unlike her sister she threw her nervous energy into training and plotting with Lyanna rather than trying to plan for absolutely every eventuality.

“Arya!” Uncle Brynden yelled to her across the training yards, knocking her from her thoughts, “Come here, I have something I wish to discuss with you.”

Arya gulped and wondered what she had done that he had found out about. Had Tormund written from the Dreadfort to say they had found the toad she had hidden in Bran’s luggage? Or had Nymeria managed to get into the laundry again and got mud over the clean linens?

She trudged up to Uncle Brynden’s solar, trying desperately to work out which of her misdeeds he might have found out about so that she could formulate a defence of it. She had little wish to get in the sort of trouble which would prevent her from collecting her winnings from the other squires.

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it and I can prove it.” Arya blurted upon entering the room.

Uncle Brynden looked up at her and blinked slowly, “We’ll return to that later, I think. I have something for you to read.”

He held out a scroll with a cracked green seal, and she took it with some trepidation.

_‘My dear Blackfish,_

_I find I must apologise to you, for there is an unexpected addition to my party. My grandmother, in all her infinite wisdom, decided to stow my little sister away on my ship, with instructions not to reveal herself until we were too far from Oldtown to justify turning back._

_This was a plan my sweet terror of a sister gleefully went along with._

_We docked in White Harbour this morning, and Lord Manderly has agreed to send some men with us to show us the way to Winterfell, we depart upon the morrow._

_I shall see you soon my dear._

_Willas.’_

Arya looked up from the letter to her uncle’s slightly reddened face. She could have done without reading the loving words between her uncle and the heir to Highgarden, but she supposed it was actually the knowledge that Margaery Tyrell was also coming to Winterfell that he had wanted her to read.

“Sansa will be pleased.” She said, instead of commenting on her uncle’s blush.

“Aye.” Brynden said, “She will be. it will be a nice surprise for her, don’t you think?”

Arya’s eyes widened in shock, “You aren’t going to tell her? You aren’t going to tell Sansa that a second set of chambers needs to be prepared?”

“No little one.” Brynden ruffled her hair, “I do believe that a nice surprise is just what your sister needs at the moment, besides, between the two of us I am sure we can have a second set of chambers prepared, especially if we ask either Jeyne for help.”

Jeyne Stark nee Westerling would happily help them, and it was help they would need. Sansa often asked her for help in the running of the castle, when her workload was too full of matters of state to do so. It would have been Jeyne’s job to do so, if the world had been a kinder place and Robb had lived.

Jeyne Poole would likely help as well, for the love she bore for Sansa and Arya was great indeed. She would know the best chambers to prepare as well, for her father had once been steward of Winterfell, and she had often accompanied him on his duties.

“I think we might need to ask both for help.” Arya said, “They can both help prevent Sansa from finding out. And, and it might help Jeyne, Poole I mean, I think she’s been feeling a little lost being back here with everything so changed.”

Brynden’s eyes crinkled as he smiled at her, “You remind me so much of your mother sometimes, sweetling, she had a heart as sweet as yours.”

Something warm pooled in Arya’s chest at his words, it was nice to be compared to her mother for it was not something that happened often, and few had known Catelyn Tully Stark as well as Brynden Tully, so she knew his words were truthful.

She scampered out of the room after giving him a quick hug, intent on finding both Jeynes and dividing up the work that needed to be done for Sansa’s surprise.

Arya had taken it upon herself to ensure the safety of the castle, to ensure that no one would harm their guests and that Sansa would be able to enjoy her surprise. She knew the walls and gates were secure, and that the majority of staff were safe, for their families had served her family for years, there were few new people however who she more carefully watched. Men who had once served in the Nights Watch and now become guards, alongside others.

There was a new maid in the kitchens who she watched in particular, one Arya did not recognise at all. Not from her walks around Wintertown, and not from any resemblance to any of the other staff. It likely meant that she had come from another Keep, rather than being a local girl or brought on due to a familial relationship with another member of the staff, but Arya did not recall any of the delegations that had travelled to Winterfell recently having been large enough to bring their on kitchen staff.

It was strange, but perhaps Arya was just being paranoid, for it did not seem like the girl was any danger or anything special. At worst she was likely just a spy, one sent by Stannis or the Dragon Queen to find out the goings on in Winterfell.

She wouldn’t find anything though, they had little to hide not like the Southern courts did.

As confident as she was about that, the iron coin in her pocket almost seemed to burn, almost seemed heavier whenever she laid eyes upon the new kitchen maid, but Arya did not think much about it. Surely it was just her imagination, wasn’t it?


	25. Jon

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The Protector of the Realm. Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt. Kneel before her.”

They all looked at one another, surely the Dragon Queen did not mean to have them kneel before her? Ser Davos stepped forwards before the silence could grow awkward and gestured to each of them in turn.

“May I present mine own companions and fellow envoys, Lord Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Ambassador for King Stannis; Prince Theon Greyjoy, Prince of the Iron Islands, Ambassador for Queen Yara; and Prince Jon Stark, Lord of the Dreadfort, Prince of Winter, Ambassador for Queen Sansa. I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand of the King, Ambassador for King Stannis. With us are our retinues, made up of lords from the lands we are sworn to protect and honour. We welcome you to the shores of Westeros, and on behalf of King Stannis, Queen Yara and Queen Sansa ask what business the Queen of Mereen has on these shores.”

The Targaryen’s face creased with anger but smoothed out again almost a moment later.

“Thank you for travelling so far, my lords. I trust the seas were not too rough?”

“They were not, my lady.” Jon bowed his head to a degree that was only just short of insulting, one appropriate for a lady of a Great House, but not for The Lady of a Great House.

He could see that there was no understanding on the Dragon Queen’s face at the insult she had been offered for she let out a cold laugh, “‘My Lady’? Is that how Westerosi greet their queen?”

“No, my lady.” Theon said, stepping forwards so he was shoulder to shoulder with Jon, “We would never use such a term with Queen Yara, Queen Sansa, nor Queen Selyse.”

From the corner of his eye Jon could almost see the exasperated look on Ser Davos’ face, and Jon understood it, he really did, they were not supposed to be insulting the woman before them, rather convincing her to leave their shores, but he was sure she did not understand or recognise even half the insults they had offered her way.

“What I believe my companions are trying to say, Auntie, is that as you are not a queen of Westeros, the term of address is perfectly valid. After all, no one refers to Jalabhar Xho as they do King Stannis, despite his title in his own lands.” Aegon smirked.

Sheer rage crossed her delicate features and somewhere in the distance a dragon roared, the walls shaking with the sound.

“Forgive me, I never received a formal education but I could have sworn that the last King in the North, Torrhen Stark bent the knee to my ancestors. In exchange for his life and the life of his men, Torrhen Stark bent the knee in perpetuity. Just as the rest of the Seven Kingdoms did. Or do I have my facts wrong?”

“Robb Stark.” Jon blurted out before he could stop himself, anger rising in his chest at the Dragon Queen’s casual dismissal of his brother.

“What?” Daenerys turned to him with confusion evident on her delicate features.

“The last King in the North was Robb Stark, not Torrhen Stark. I would have thought you would have known that, considering it happened a mere year ago. So yes, Queen Daenerys, you do have your facts wrong.”

The Targaryen’s face flushed red at having her lack of knowledge exposed, but Jon could not bring himself to feel bad about it. Especially not when she dared to insult his brother, when she dared to forget that he existed.

“I see.” The Dragon Queen settled back against her chair, pulling her aura of smugness back around her like a well-worn cloak, “I trust you have come here to bend the knee and renew your ancestors’ oaths, on behalf of your false kings and queens.”

“We have not, Your Grace.” Ser Davos said, wrestling back control of the conversation before Jon, Aegon, and Theon could anger the Dragon Queen any further. “We have come, in fact, to persuade you as to why taking Westeros is not in your best interests.”

“So, you came all this way, just to break faith with House Targaryen? How disappointing.”

Aegon barked out a laugh, “House Targaryen broke faith with the Seven Kingdoms first, Auntie. When your father, when grandfather killed Rickard and Brandon Stark without fair trial. When my father, kidnapped and raped the daughter of a Great House and no reparations were made. When Aerys Targaryen called for Jon Arryn to break Guest Right and give his wards over to the slaughter. House Targaryen broke faith first, and it was within the rights of Westeros to depose us, to remove us from the Throne, just as they did with the Lannisters when Eddard Stark was killed without fair trial and Robb and Catelyn Stark were killed under Guest Right.”

Lannister and Lord Varys shifted uncomfortably at Aegon’s words and Ser Davos glared at him, “What my companion is trying to say, Your Grace, is that no oaths have been broken between the Houses of Westeros and House Targaryen which were not already broken by your father.”

“Besides Auntie,” Aegon said, seemingly unaffected by the disappointment in Ser Davos’ gaze, “As head of House Targaryen I have already sworn to King Stannis, making you the oath breaker, not anyone else.”

“Enough.” Daenerys Targaryen snarled, “It seems these ‘negotiations’ are going nowhere. Lord Tyrion will show you to your chambers. I am done speaking to you all today.”

She stood as if to leave the throne room, to storm off like a toddler having a tantrum. And yet all Jon could think was how very little she understood of Westerosi customs, of how she did not seem to realise or care for how she had insulted them all. Jon was not sure which one was worse, whether an ignorance despite having opportunity to learn or a lack of care for their customs was worse, or whether they were the same thing.

He could not help himself from stepping forwards once more, from looking into her eyes defiantly, and recalling every ounce of courtesy and strength that his family showed.

“And what of the Bread and Salt? What of Guest Right? Or do you mean to take us hostage, to take us prisoner and declare war on the whole of Westeros?” He gritted his teeth into a smile, “I am aware that with a Lannister in your retinue that Guest Right may not hold the same meaning to you, but you cannot claim to want to rule Westeros and ignore our oldest customs.”

Fear flashed across Lord Varys’ face, and he looked at Jon as though he was something strange to be studied, an anomaly of some sort. Jon recalled how Sansa had spoken of Lord Varys during her time in Kings Landing, or how he had spoken of their father’s treasons to the Lannisters, and hatred gripped his heart.

“Of course you are not hostages and prisoners,” The portly lord said, “It merely slipped our most gracious queen’s mind. We should have expected that it would be the Stark who remembered the importance of Guest Right.”

A snarl wanted to rip its way out of Jon’s throat at the reference to Robb, at the way that they would have casually refused Guest Right had he not brought it up.

A servant was sent to collect bread and salt, and at no point did the Dragon Queen’s imperious expression waver, her tantrum had ceased, and instead been replaced by an air as if she was doing them a favour, as though she thought their oldest customs and rites to be quaint.

Jon curled his lip back at the sight of them all, he was already looking forwards to being able to leave this accursed island.

* * *

Ser Davos had scolded them all, as though they were little boys and not princes in their own right when they were back in their chambers, he had made them promise not to try to antagonise the Dragon Queen, reminded them that they were there to make peace, not war. The three of them had hung their heads, Jon and Theon feeling as they had when Father had scolded them as children.

They had deserved the scolding in truth, the three of them had a bad habit of building off of each other and managing to insult Daenerys Targaryen and her retinue. It did not help that doing such a thing was so very easy. That insulting the prideful Dragon Queen and her retinue of traitors, oath breakers and slavers was so very easy.

But they had promised to behave, for no one wished to see them fall into war once again. For none of them wished to be the reason for bloodshed once again.

Jon had taken to walking around the island, to exploring the inlets and bays and green cliffs; often he was accompanied by Aegon who would point out features that contained the history of their family. Features that no one had bothered to point out to the Dragon Queen.

“Jon Snow, my Hand calls you, and yet you were introduced by another name. Why is this?” Daenerys Targaryen approached him, in a dress too low cut for her to be truly warm in the wind that battered the cliff edge.

“Her Grace, my sister, legitimised me, my lady.” Jon bowed awkwardly, as he tried to remember the lessons of courtesy that Sansa had tried to instil in his head.

“Even though you might challenge her rule? That was brave of her.” She placed a hand on Jon’s arm and leaned in as though to ensure he could see down her dress.

Jon stepped away and turned his gaze over the cliffs, “No Lord in the North would choose me for a king over my sister. Not when my brothers chose her to abdicate the throne to, not when she is above me in the line of succession no matter how you may look at it.”

“And why is that?” The Dragon Queen stepped closer again, uncaring of Jon’s discomfort, “She is both younger than you and a girl, is she not? I would have thought you would hold the stronger claim.”

“The son of a lord’s younger sister will always be behind the daughter of the lord himself in the succession.”

He could see her mind try to understand his words, could see the way she tried to parse his meaning from them.

Her face blanched and she stepped away, “No.” She whispered in horror, “It cannot be.”

Jon felt a moment of pity for her, she had spent so long thinking that she was alone, that it was her birth right to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and yet when she had arrived all her beliefs had been proved false.

“By blood I have one brother, and had one sister. By adoption I had three brothers and two sisters. Eddard Stark was my father, the man who raised me, and yet by blood he was my uncle. My blood father kidnapped my mother, and plunged the whole of Westeros into war for his lusts.”

His words were brutal, and he felt no regret for them. If they served to shatter any illusions that she might have held over Rhaegar Targaryen then that could only be a good thing.

“You claim to be my blood.” She said, the tinge of horror still in her voice, “You claim to have Dragon blood. Let us put that to the test. You and the other claiming to be the son of Rhaegar.”

Jon made sure his face showed the fear that she wanted to see, made sure the hours of practicing control of his facial expressions paid off as inwardly he was cheering. Tormund’s words had stuck with him, and he wanted to see if he really could forge a connection to one of the dragons.

It was a plan he had discussed with Theon, for he was one of the few people to recall how Robb and Greywind had acted, of the bond between the two of them. Sometimes it felt like Robb was inside Greywind still, like they had both been brought back to help protect Sansa.

The Dragon Queen sent someone to fetch Aegon and led them both to the field in which her dragons were housed. Where once there had been lush grass was now scorched, littered with the charred bones of the animals that had gone to feed such huge creatures, and around the edges of the field stood the blackened stumps and skeletons of trees.

The dragons were truly breath-taking and incredible up close. Every part of them was streamlined to cause damage, to be utterly awe inspiring.

They explained so much about the arrogance of Daenerys Targaryen.

To have the power to destroy cities, to destroy whole countries at your fingertips, well it was no wonder she had the audacity to assume Westeros would fall at her feet.

She watched as he and Aegon approached the beasts, a smug smile upon her face, as though she expected them to be burnt or eaten by her ‘children’ for daring to approach them.

A sort of soft tugging sensation filled Jon’s stomach as he laid eyes upon the white one of the trio, similar to the one which had led him to Ghost when he was hidden in the snow as a new-born pup. A sort of sense of right filled him as he looked into that great red eye. It blinked once at him and huffed out a breath that stank of burnt flesh, but moved its snout so it was closer to him, a invitation if Jon had ever seen one.

He placed a hand on the white dragon’s snout and savoured the feeling of the power humming under its scales. A familiar sort of sensation filled him, like the one he felt whenever Ghost was near, weaker for now, but the potential was there.

He smiled at the dragon, at the knowledge that if all else went wrong this was an advantage that might just save them all.

* * *

“Jon Snow.” Lannister approached him with a friendly air, “I overheard something Ser Davos said, and I was wondering if you might clarify it for me.”

Jon inclined his head, “It depends on what it is.”

Lannister looked up at him with solemn eyes, “I heard Ser Davos mention your sister, and a sword. Perhaps you could elaborate on that?”

“My sisters and a sword?” Jon pretended to ponder the question while inwardly smirking, “Well Arya is squire to Lady Brienne of Tarth, she’s getting really rather good with a sword at the moment. As for Sansa, well she dislikes it, but our way is the old way. She executed those responsible for the Red Wedding herself: Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, and Tywin Lannister.”

Tyrion Lannister gulped and looked sorry he had asked, his face pale and his eyes wide.

“I would warn you not to underestimate my sisters, my lord.” Jon said lowly, “They are much changed from the girls you once knew.”

“I cannot picture sweet little Sansa wielding a sword.” Tyrion grinned shakily, “I would not have even thought she knew which end was the blade.”

Jon did not allow himself to feel insulted on Sansa’s behalf, she had warned him of how many in Kings Landing had thought of her, of how they would still view her. She had told him that he was not to react to any insult thrown her way.

He smiled slowly, “If that is what you believe my lord, then I will not argue with you. Ask Lord Piper or Lord Royce, they are like to answer any questions you might have about my sweet sister.”

There must have been something in his tone, for Lannister quickly backed away and all but fled down the corridor. It was gratifying to see, for Jon had not liked the light that had entered Lannister’s eyes when talking about Sansa.

He continued on out of the castle, down to the coast where a dinghy was waiting with one of the ravens from the ship. He had signalled them the previous night to bring the raven to him, for he had need to send a message to Sansa, to update her on the situation on Dragnstone so she knew what to prepare.

_‘Sansa,_

_I do not believe there will be peace. The Dragon Queen is arrogant, her followers are scared to disagree with her. Tell Tormund he was right, the dragons really are Ghost-like._

_Theon sends his love and tells Bran to keep practising._

_With love to you all,_

_Jon.’_

He watched the raven flap away northwards after tying the massage to its foot and breathed out heavily. He did not know when he would next have the opportunity to send a message to his siblings and prayed they understood his hidden meanings.


	26. Sansa

It was obvious that Arya was hiding something from her, Sansa knew all her tells for they were the same as they had been when she was causing mischief for mother and father. Sansa doubted it was anything malicious though, likely Arya was planning a surprise for someone or trying to think of a way to learn the finger dance without anyone stopping her.

She trusted her little sister and knew that whatever she was hiding would not be malicious, not least because she had promised Jon she would behave before he went South. And Arya had never broken a promise.

Or at least, never broken an important promise, the one she had made about keeping Nymeria from spreading mud all over the castle was one that was regularly broken.

She also seemed to be spending a large amount of time with Jeyne Poole and Jeyne Westerling, discussing things with them and shadowing them around the castle. It was strange behaviour, but when Sansa had mentioned it to Uncle Brynden he had assured her nothing was wrong, and so Sansa had not questioned it any further.

As her sister’s face creased into an unholy grin as they stood on the battlements to watch the banners upon the horizon, Sansa regretted that she had not question it any further.

Manderly and Tyrell banners danced upon the horizon, a sight that, until recently, had not been seen for centuries, since the Manderlys fled the Reach and sought safety in the North. It was a welcome sight though, for it heralded not only an influx of fresh supplies, but also the presence of someone who would stop Uncle Brynden moping around Winterfell.

Sansa loved her uncle and she knew he loved them all, but she found she could not deal with his lovelorn looks and pouts that would put Jon to shame for much longer. Had the letter not arrived from Highgarden she likely would have sent him on some errand to Dorne or the Vale so he would at least have some form of company that was not his family.

She chided her sister to clean up and make her way to the Great Hall to meet their guests and welcome them to Winterfell, aware that if she did not then Arya would likely ‘forget’.

They were the first official foreign delegation since the Winter Kingdoms had been granted their independence from the Iron Throne, and that was of great importance indeed for undoubtedly their actions would be reported back to Stannis Baratheon and the rest of the Southern courts. Their kingdoms may have been allies, but they were not friends.

Sansa would not have them spy any weakness among her court.

She had donned a gown of the palest grey, one that was almost white, with weirwood leaves and falcon feathers and fish scales embroidered all around the hem. She would show the southerners that her kingdoms were untied, that they were happy under her rule. Her hair she let fall over her shoulders, unadorned with any braids or jewels, save for her crown.

They would not see some perfumed Southern Queen, but a Queen of Winter indeed. There was no sword upon her hip, she had no need of one, not with Lady and Greywind on either side of her.

She waited upon the carved chair that had been her father’s, for the guests to be brought to her by Brynden. An ancient silver dish containing salt and bread sat on the table to her side, one of the artefacts she had been most relieved to have found to have survived the Boltons and Ironborn for it had been in their family since before Torrhen knelt.

Arya was by her side, obviously struggling to keep a straight face, an expression that made Sansa instantly wary. Whatever her baby sister had been planning, this was likely the culmination. She could only hope it wasn’t something that would sour relationships with their guests.

Brynden led their guests in, a smile on his face, and Sansa stiffened as she realised why there had been so many secretive smirks and knowing grins since they had received news of Willas Tyrell landing in White Harbour.

She forced her cheeks not to redden as Margaery walked into the Hall, in a cloak too thin for the cold and a gown the green of new shoots. Ser Wylis and Lady Wylla Manderly accompanied her, as did a man that could only be her brother.

It was strange to look upon Willas Tyrell, the man that she might have married had Margaery and Olenna’s plans worked, and know he was there for her uncle.

Sansa stood and stepped forwards to offer the bread and salt and her greetings, first to the Manderlys, and then to the Tyrells.

“Lord Willas.” She said softly, “Welcome to Winterfell, I hope your stay will be as pleasant as it is productive.”

Willas Tyrell bowed to her, leaning heavily on his carved cane as he did so, “I hope so as well, Your Grace, the North truly is a beautiful place.”

Sansa smiled at him, a sweet smile, for she could not forget that they were allies, that he had sent men and supplies and his own brother to aid her campaign to take back her homeland.

Margaery sank into a low curtsey and looked up at Sansa’s through her unfairly thick eyelashes, “Queen Sansa, it is an absolute pleasure to see you again. You are even more lovely now; the snows suit you.”

Her voice was almost a purr and she seemed to roll the words around in her mouth as though they were a sweetmeat and it suddenly became much more difficult for Sansa to contain the blush which wanted to rise on her cheeks.

“Lady Margaery,” Sansa reached out and clasped her hands in hr own, “It is so good to see you again. Welcome to Winterfell.”

She could hear that her voice was a shade higher than normal, and if the slight snicker from Arya was any indication, so could her sister.

“I’m sure I will have the most pleasurable time.” Margaery said, her eyes portraying her double meaning well enough that the tips of Sansa’s ears went bright red.

Her sister’s grin only widened when Sansa looked to her, promising death with her eyes. She would make Arya suffer for springing such a surprise on her, for cracking through her mask of courtesy, no matter how pleasant it was.

She would get her revenge upon her sister.

* * *

Sansa anxiously awaited any news from Dragonstone, for any indication that she might need to mobilise troops or evacuate citizens. As such when a letter from Jon arrived, she had eagerly read it.

Jon’s letter was as comforting as it was unnerving, written in a code that few would recognise, one which told her of the true nature of the Dragon Queen, as well as telling her of the hope they now had.

‘arrogant’ had not been one of their agreed upon phrases, and that alone told Sansa far more than anything else. They had planned for if she was like Aerys, aware of her madness, they had planned for if she was like Cersei, power hungry but slightly reasonable, they had even planned for if she was like Joffrey, throwing tantrums and wanting to watch the world burn. It seemed the Dragon Queen was like none of these.

That was bad. That meant they were dealing with someone completely new, someone who would not think to plan battles like others.

And if her advisors were scared of her, if traitors and slavers and a Lannister were scared of her, well that was even more worrying.

An absent part of Sansa’s mind wondered how Robb would have dealt with the Dragon Queen, or how mother or father would have, whether they would approve of her actions and her preparations not just for battle or peace, but for surrender too. She wondered whether Robb would have fought until the last man had fallen, until the last stone of the last Keep had been destroyed, or whether he too would have plans upon plans to save as many of their people as he could.

She liked to think that father at least would have approved, he had always emphasised that their lives were the most important thing, more important than any honour or reputation.

But she did not have time to worry about the approval of family long dead, not when she had supplies to organise and petitions to hear and a living family to keep safe. A brother who even now courted the dangers of dragonfire, the wrath of a queen with hordes at her back as he tried to steal a dragon from under her very nose.

Sansa swallowed heavily and penned a reply to her brother, if he could make the dragon his own then they might just stand a chance against Daenerys Targaryen.

She just prayed it would not cost him his life.

* * *

“Your Grace.” Margaery curtseyed to her, her eyes never leaving Sansa’s own. She belonged among the flowers, the dappled light filtering through the greenery only enhancing her beauty.

Sansa smiled at her, suddenly realising why Arya had sent her to the glass gardens, “Lady Margaery, how are you finding your time here?”

Margaery trilled out a delicate laugh, “Winterfell is lovely, I can see why you missed it so. Its cold though, colder than even the deepest Winter in Highgarden.”

It was unsurprising she was cold, the dresses that Margaery wore in the South would do little to protect her from the bite of the northern winds, this Sansa knew for a fact. It was also unsurprising that she was in the glass gardens, they were one of the warmest parts of Winterfell and Margaery always had seemed to gravitate to growing things.

“I’ll have someone bring you a thicker cloak or two.” Sansa promised, she sat down on one of the stone benches near the blue roses and patted the spot beside her, “These were always one of my favourite places as a child. I used to bring my needlework here whenever I could, sometimes my brothers and sister would join me and we would tell stories and eat sweetmeats and avoid our lessons. Robb did always tell the best tales.”

Margaery perched next to her, as elegant as always, “Loras and I would do the same thing, only we would hide in the maze or in Willas’ study,” Her voice was fondly wistful, “Willas never would snitch to mother and father about us, although I am sure grandmother always knew. He kept a tin of dried fruits and candied nuts just for us on his bookshelf.”

Her fingers tangled with Sansa’s a soft grip, a gentle pressure and reassurance, a steady warmth.

“I miss those days.” Sansa confessed, “I miss my brother and the way that I felt so safe when he was around, like no one could ever hurt me. I once told Joffrey that Robb would give me his head after he boasted about his prowess.”

Margaery gasped, deliciously scandalised, “And how did our benevolent king react to that, I wonder?”

Sansa shrugged and looked away, “He had one of the Kingsguard backhand me with their gauntleted fist.”

“I killed him you know.” Margaery said intensely, “Poisoned him at our wedding feast. He choked on Strangler and died painfully.”

“You did?” Sansa’s eyes widened.

“Yes, sweet girl, I did. It was to be the Tears of Lys, painless and undetectable, but then we saw how he treated you, how he mocked Renly’s death, and we found we wanted him to die screaming.” Margaery’s other hand reached up to cradle Sansa’s cheek, “I loved every second of it, and Cersei’s screams as well. He had spent the entire feast boasting of how he was going to hunt you down and behead you himself, of how he was going to place your head next to your father’s. I would normally be hesitant to say any deserved death, but Joffrey truly did.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, she had celebrated when she had heard of Joffrey’s death, they all had, but she had just taken the Twins and had been focused on returning to Winterfell, of ensuring her armies were prepared for the cold of the North, she had had little time to ponder the manner of his death. And now, to find out that Margaery had killed him, that she had changed their plans and made him suffer because of her, it was almost enough to make her believe in the songs again.

“Thank you.” She whispered, “For everything you and your family have done for me.”

“You are equally as responsible,” Margaery said, “You charmed me with your sweetness, the innocence and kindness which still clung to you even while surrounded by those who would do you ill. And you and your family have repaid us all so many times over, without your family we would not be standing here, Westeros would be a land of corpses and wights and even if not, my family likely would have perished at the hands of Stannis Baratheon had he taken the throne without your deals in place.”

Her hand left Sansa’s cheek, but their fingers remained entwined. They sat among the fragrant blooms, enjoying a moment or two more of peace and reflection until their duties called to them once again.

“It is strange to think that it is Loras, and not I, who shall become a monarch’s consort.” Margaery said with a soft and sweet laugh, “All he wanted was to be a knight while I wanted to be the queen.”

Sansa squeezed her hand, “There is a place here in Winterfell for you, should you want it. You would not have the title, but then, neither did your brother in King Renly’s court.”

“I have been married thrice, a queen to three kings, I do not think I would like to marry again.” Margaery sounded weary, “I would accept your offer, I think, but not yet. I will return to you when my brother travels North to have your cloak placed upon his shoulders.”

Margaery tilted her head and pressed the softest of kisses against Sansa’s lips, a delicate promise for the future. A whisper of things to come, and a hope for the end of the war yet to come.


	27. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm adding a warning here for general Euron creepiness... Also this will be the last Jon chapter for a little while as events in mainland Westeros unfold

Jon had initially been shocked when Daenerys had not thrown a fit at the acceptance of he and Aegon by her dragons, that was until he realised why she had seen it as a good thing and why her gowns had become even lower cut.

“Aegon the conqueror had two Queens, who is to say that I may not have two consorts?” Daenerys approached he and Aegon with a covetous look on her face. “My children already approve of you, and together we might rebuild the Targaryen dynasty so that it might stand for a thousand years.”

He exchanged a heavy look with Aegon, the pair of them having a silent exchange of just who would speak first.

“I am afraid my brother and I are already promised to others, my lady.” Aegon said stiffly.

The Dragon Queen waved a hand carelessly and pressed against Jon’s side, “Betrothals can be broken, and sacrifices must be made for the good of our family. I myself left the man I loved behind in Essos so that I might marry over here.”

Jon swallowed and stiffly stepped away, “I am not betrothed, my lady, I am already wed.”

Pure rage flashed across her features for a moment, before they smoothed out again, “Marriages can be put aside for the good of the realm. I am sure whatever Northern chit your sister had you wed to consolidate power will step aside with the right incentive.”

Jon made the mistake of catching Aegon’s eye and neither could not hold back the laughter that rolled through their body. He laughed so hard that pain touched his sides and he had to grab hold of his stomach, never before had Tormund been described as a ‘Northern chit’ and he doubted that it would ever happen again.

The Dragon Queen’s delicate features flushed with anger as she was laughed at and her mouth twisted into a snarl. “Did something I say amuse you, nephews?”

“My husband can not in any shape or form be described as a ‘chit’, my lady. Nor can our marriage be easily put aside.” Jon evened out his tone, for all he was sure his laughter was still evident in his eyes. “Our marriage helps to bind the Free Folk to our treaty, for Tormund is highly respected among them.”

“So your sister uses you as a whore to do her bidding? She binds you to a man as if you were a maiden. Tell me, nephew, are you truly happy serving a girl who would sell her own family for a treaty?” There was a hint of knowing compassion in Daenerys’ voice, a hint of empathy and grief, and not for the first time Jon found himself wondering what her life truly had been like in Essos.

Aegon grinned and laid a hand upon Jon’s arm, “You do not need to worry for Prince Jon’s virtue, my lady. He and his husband are rather enamoured with each other. In fact, I heard it said that Queen Sansa changed their laws to allow them to wed!”

Daenerys’ mouth puckered like she had bitten into a lemon, “Is that so?”

“Aye.” Jon knew his voice was quiet, “It is. And I will not be separated from my husband. Not by any king or queen or dragon.”

* * *

“Little Theon!” A man with dark hair and lips of the palest blue called out while blocking the hallway.

Jon watched as Theon swallowed heavily and set his shoulders as though he was anticipating a fight, and he moved so that he was ready to back him up if need be.

“Uncle.” Theon nodded stiffly.

Euron Greyjoy, for who else could it have been, moved to envelope Theon in a crushing hold, one which held as much affection as a wolf ripping apart a rabbit. Theon was stiff in his hold, but he did not wince or flinch, which was an improvement from before he had gone to visit his mother.

“I hear your sister has taken control of my Islands.” Euron leered, stepping back, “Surprised they didn’t ask for you, but then, your sister is more a man than you.”

Euron grabbed at Theon’s crotch and groped it punishingly, and red filled Jon’s vision.

“Unhand him.” He growled, moving so his face was mere inches from the Greyjoy lord’s, “Unhand Theon now, or lose that hand.”

Theon’s uncle barked out a laugh and moved back with his hands raised, “It seems you have picked up a guard pup, little Theon, a pretty pup as well. Perhaps when all this is over and the rightful queen is on the throne, I shall take the pair of you for my own. You’re prettier than half the salt wives of Pyke.”

Bile moved up Jon’s throat at the thought of such a thing, and his hand found its way to the pommel of Longclaw.

“Maybe I’ll even take your sisters as well, I shall need a Rock wife to carry my heirs, and who better than my niece to consolidate our claims or the pretty little Northern Queen?” Euron licked his lips, “I could keep you all there, my pretty little things that no man might touch, of course, I would need to make you like Little Theon to be sure of that.”

Jon felt like retching at the implications of those words, and he started to draw Longclaw. He would have unsheathed it completely had Tyrion Lannister not chosen to display his almost unnatural sense of knowing when drama was about to ensue.

“Ahh, Greyjoy. Her Grace will be pleased to see you back, I trust your mission was successful?”

Euron licked his lips again, “Of course it was, my people are good at what they do. They respect me too much to do otherwise.”

“I had not realised that respect now meant fear.” Theon muttered from behind Jon, his voice perhaps a touch louder than it should have been.

“What did you say, you little shit?” Euron forced his way past Jon to grab hold of Theon’s collar, “I ought to cut your tongue out or throw you to the sea like your father should have before letting you be taken.”

“Lord Greyjoy.” The Imp sounded scandalised, “Lord Theon is a guest of our queen, he is not to be harmed.”

Greyjoy dropped his hold on Theon with a huff and stared at both of them with lust filled eyes, “You’d better pray your queens win this battle, for I am looking forward to having you both in my bed.”

He stalked off down the corridor, a predatory gait, and Jon felt himself shudder at the thought of being at that man’s mercy, at the thought of his siblings being at that man’s mercy. He would kill them himself and damn himself for a kinslayer before allowing such a thing.

* * *

“My Lord Hand tells me he will soon be joining your family, nephew.”

Daenerys’ words sparked confusion within Jon’s chest, how would a Lannister of all people be joining the Starks? The only one of his siblings anywhere near marriageable age was Sansa, and she would be married to a Lannister over Jon’s dead body.

And probably the corpses of the rest of their family as well.

“Is he?” Jon asked lightly, trying to channel Sansa’s way with the lords she did not like.

“Yes. He is betrothed to your sister, is he not? Despite her treasonous ways I am quite reasonable, and what better way to prevent her uprising against the throne again than by becoming Lady of Casterly Rock and the wife of my own Hand?” The Dragon Queen’s words made a hot bolt of rage shoot through Jon’s veins.

“As only one of my sisters currently has a finalised betrothal, my lady, I am unsure what you are speaking of. Princess Arya is due to marry Lord Arryn upon turning eight and ten, while Queen Sansa is in negotiations with the Tyrells at present.” He said, the anger in his tone belying his courteous words.

The Dragon Queen raised an eyebrow, “Oh? Is it not true that Lady Sansa was to be married to Lord Tyrion before her abduction from Kings Landing?”

There was such false confusion in her tone that Jon had to clench his fist to keep from attempting to reach for the sword upon his belt. It would not do to draw a weapon upon the Dragon Queen and risk breaking Guest Right.

“Queen Sansa has previously been part of one true betrothal, one which was broken when King Joffrey set it aside so that he might form an alliance with the Tyrells. No other betrothal formed in Kings Landing held any member of House Stark or House Tully’s approval, including Queen Sansa, and is so not valid under Westerosi Law. Furthermore, my lady, any attempt to marry Queen Sansa to a man twice her age, and a Lannister at that, will be faced with a thousand Northern blades.”

The strangest expression crossed Daenerys Targaryen’s face, one which made her look almost childish, despite the fact that Jon knew she was at least as old as he was. She moved closer to him and twisted a lock of her silver hair around a finger.

“I had a brother once, who I was sure would defend me as you do your sister. He decided to sell me in the hopes of gaining a crown.” Her voice was sickly sweet, “It is sweet that you wish to protect your sister, but I am sure that in time she will come to love Tyrion, just as I loved my husband.”

It was really a feat of strength that Jon did not bare his teeth into a snarl like Ghost would have, he wanted to snap and snarl and rage at the thought of Sansa being wed to the Imp. At the thought of his little sister being wed into the family which had destroyed theirs, to a man that would not respect her as a queen in her own right.

“My sister will be married to a Lannister over my rotting corpse.” He promised softly, “This I swear to you.”

Guest right or not, violence might have broke out had some of Daenerys’ soldiers not approached them, a man with a familiar sigil upon his chest in the centre. They knelt before the Dragon Queen, who bade them rise with genuine fondness in her eyes.

“Jon, this is Ser Jorah Mormont, an old friend.” Daenerys looked upon the traitor with soft eyes.

“I served with your father, he was a great man.” Jon made sure to look Ser Jorah Mormont directly in the eye, “I always felt sorry for him though, having a coward and a traitor for a son.”

Mormont’s eyes widened, as though he could not believe what he had just heard, “Queen Daenerys pardoned me of any crime.”

Jon smiled Sansa’s smile, one that was polite and insulting simultaneously, “The Queen of Meeren has no jurisdiction in the North where your crimes were committed, she does not have the power to pardon you at all and if she truly wished for peace between our peoples then she would not be harbouring a slaver from justice.” His smile turned into an expression their father had worn when having to dispense justice, “You are a traitor to the North, you were banished from the shores of Westeros under pain of death. To return here is an insult to your family and an affront to our laws.”

“Ser Jorah is under my protection, as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms it is my prerogative to pardon who I will.” Daenerys sounded like a child throwing a tantrum, “I have pardoned Ser Jorah for the mistake he made and he has won my trust and friendship through service.”

“Selling poachers into slavery, a crime normally punished by lashes or the stocks, is no simple mistake, my lady.” Jon refuted, he had grown up learning of justice and would not have it diminished by someone who did not even know of their laws, “Betraying the trust of the smallfolk and impeding true justice is a capital crime in the North and has been since the days of Brandon the Builder. Ser Jorah Mormont knew this, and yet he committed such a crime all the same.”

Mormont laid a hand upon Daenerys’ arm, “It is fine, Your Grace, I knew the North would never accept me back with open arms, they are a prideful lot.”

“Well they will have to respect you when you become Warden of the North.” She said petulantly and Jon froze at those words.

“If you place anyone not of Stark blood in charge of the North, should you manage to take it, then you will never have peace.” He warned, “The North will never bow to anyone without Stark blood.”

“They will if I tell them to.” The Dragon Queen wrapped her hand around Mormont’s arm and led him away, obviously content to have what she believed was the final word.

Jon shook his head, if the Dragon Queen did succeed in her goal, something he prayed would never happen, then she would surely be dealing with rebellions for the duration of her reign.

* * *

A little under a month after their arrival on Dragonstone they were summoned to the throne room, to stand before that hulking stone monstrosity and the petulant queen who sat upon it.

Her hair was arrayed as it had been when they arrived, in a mass of complex braids which fitted no Westerosi style, in a gown of black and blood red which had an armoured, winged feel to it.

Before her stood her allies, the Imp and Lord Varys, Euron Greyjoy and a Dothraki, the leader of the Unsullied and Ser Jorah Mormont. To one side stood Missandei, the lady who seemed to act as scribe and handmaid and seneschal for Daenerys Targaryen.

Soldiers stood around the edge of the room, more than Jon had seen before, and their presence set his teeth on edge, whatever they had planned was certainly not good news.

“These negotiations have dragged on long enough, if the threat of my dragons and the acknowledgement of my rightful claim won’t gain me the Iron Throne, if your treasonous monarchs will not give up their crowns peacefully, then we will have war.” There was a mad look on Daenerys Targaryen’s face, the expression of one convinced of their righteousness. “The people of Westeros have brought this on themselves, I will take my crown with fire and with blood.”

At some unspoken signal the troops she surrounded herself with grabbed hold of Jon and the others, wrestling their arms behind their backs.

“Hostages have no need of weapons, my lords.” The Imp said in a too-reasonable tone, “Relinquish them peacefully and we shall promise that you will gain them back once we have no more need of hostages.”

Jon gritted his teeth and looked to catch Ser Davos’ eye. The man looked at the Imp and the Dragon Queen searchingly, emotions that Jon could not name passing over his face. Finally, he nodded, “Aye, do as they say, there is no point being hurt over a few swords.”

It was a wrench to agree to give Longclaw up, but Jon did as he was bade when an arm was released. He had no chance of escape if he was hurt, and besides, he did not trust the Dragon Queen’s retinue not to let him die of infection should he become wounded.

“Bring them.” Daenerys Targaryen ordered, “Let them see the first casualties of their stubbornness.”

They were marched out of the throne room, out onto the platform that overlooked the seas. A piercing whistle filled the air and the great black dragon landed beside his mistress.

“Watch.” She ordered them before mounting her monster.

They flew, up over the sea, circling around and around until suddenly Daenerys Targaryen’s meaning became clear.

Jon could only watch, helpless and terrified, as a stream of flame hit the Black Bertha, its tar coated exterior catching light quickly, and as it sank beneath the waves, the terrified and agonised screams of the crew still echoing in the air.

They had failed. The Dragon Queen had declared war.

And now he was a hostage.


	28. Brynden

There was something unashamedly decadent about lounging in bed after the sun had already risen, even more so when Brynden was not alone in his bed.

Tousled chestnut curls lay across one pillow, rich and dark against the white linen of the pillow coverings, a sight that brought a smile to Brynden’s face. Willas’ curls were all that could be seen of him, he had tucked himself under the furs so nothing else poked out. The cold of the North was a shock indeed to the system to those more used to the temperate climate of the Reach, even within the heated walls of Winterfell.

Brynden’s nieces had all but ordered him to take a day to enjoy having Willas around, a day away from his responsibilities before the stress piled on once more. It was a gift he had no plans to squander, a day in which he had no plans to leave the room unless it was to visit the springs or fetch food.

He had protested against it, had told Sansa and Arya that it felt wrong to take a day for himself when there were still so many preparations that needed doing, when there were still things to do to prepare for mobilisation of their armies or evacuation of their people. They had insisted though, and Brynden had capitulated after a minimal amount of persuasion, he would not refuse the gift they had seen fit to give him.

His smile stretched wider when Willas shifted beneath the furs, turning until his face was visible and his eyes blinked open.

“Good morning.” Brynden said softly, “Did you sleep well?”

Willas stretched his lithe limbs and smiled blearily, “I did. I am surprised indeed by the warmth of this castle; we have always been told how cold the North is.”

He moved closer so that he was pressed against Brynden’s side, a press of warm flesh and soft skin that seemed to wake Willas up faster than anything else.

“I had thought that you did not like to be inactive.” Willas purred, running his fingers over Brynden’s arm, “That always seemed to be more Oberyn’s style than yours.”

Brynden caught Willas’ fingers and pressed a gentle kiss to them, “If you would like we could go and train and hunt and run around trying to curtail my niece’s mischief,” He said with humour in his eyes, “I merely thought you would prefer to spend a day doing very little.”

A sly smirk found its way onto Willas’ face, “That seems like a cruel name to call yourself.”

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to register, but when they did Brynden’s mouth opened in shock.

“Why you little! You have been spending far too much time with Oberyn.”

Willas stretched languidly and peered up at his through his eyelashes, “I have not. Grandmother refuses to let him within a league of Highgarden when she is at home, she seems to think he’ll spirit me away to the sands of Dorne or the shores of Essos if given half the chance.”

Olenna’s fears were not unfounded, truth be told, although her belief that Willas would not return was most assuredly false. Willas would never leave Highgarden forever, he enjoyed his heirship and the prospect of becoming lord one day far too much.

“And yet you have stolen your self away to the icy plains of the North.” Brynden teased, “Whatever does your formidable grandmother think of that?”

“You are imminently more respectable in her eyes, after all, you are the Hand and uncle of a Queen, why should she not approve?”

Their eyes met and suddenly neither could contain their laughter, laughter that quickly evolved into something more as they refamiliarised themselves with each other’s bodies and took advantage of the time they had been offered.

Decadent it may have been, but it was finite all the same.

* * *

They could not lounge around forever though, there was work to be done and the reason for Willas’ visit to still be attended to. They had gathered, not in the Great Hall, but in the War Room, with a map of Westeros laid out before them and painted figures of sigils lined up to one side.

“A gift for you, Your Grace. Sent from the Citadel itself, with courtesy from Lord Hightower.” Willas bowed and gestured for a chest to be brought forwards.

The chest was carved and painted with sigils of the Reach, and of the Citadel, reminders perhaps of their generosity. No matter that the documents within had likely been ordered to be dispensed by the Iron Throne for use against the dragons.

“We thank the citadel and the Reach for this generosity.” Sansa said formally, and Brynden was struck by how proud he was of her. He had not expected her to be quite so good a monarch quite so soon when he had crowned her, had expected her to be more of a figurehead until she was older and more able to navigate court politics. And yet she was thriving as Queen, her people were thriving and healing, and they seemed to love her in a way few monarchs were ever loved by their people.

The chest was opened, revealing a pile of scrolls and papers, accounts from the conquest and written by the Targaryens themselves about their dragons; even copies of diagrams from Dorne, ones which contained instructions for how to build the contraptions which had shot down Queen Rhaenys and her dragon.

And underneath it all was a stack of books, books which looked newly written or transcribed, books which brought a tear to Sansa’s eye, and Brynden’s if he was to be completely honest.

‘A Legendarium of the Kings of Winter: The laws, legends, and histories of the North.’; ‘The Young Wolf – The Reign of Robb Stark, King in the North and the Trident.’; ‘The War for the Dawn: An account of the War that Saved Humanity.’; books that they had certainly never expected to see, let alone to keep and house in Winterfell’s own library, and yet there they were.

He looked up and met Willas’ eyes, fully aware of the disbelief and shock that was in his own. Willas smiled at him, a gentle smile, a rare one that did not contain any cunning or guile.

The same smile was on his sister’s face, Lady Margaery looked at Sansa the same way that Brynden had caught Sansa looking at her. It was sweet to see indeed, and he found himself hoping desperately that Lady Margaery would choose to stay North, that she would choose to stay by Sansa’s side.

“This is very generous.” Sansa breathed, lifting the book about Robb into her arms as gently as she did Tommen’s kitten.

“A gift to celebrate the friendship between our lands.” Lady Margaery said sweetly, “And a thanks for keeping Garlan alive, for we know that can’t have been easy.”

“Our thanks again.” Brynden said, interjecting before Sansa’s eyes grew any larger. “These will be useful indeed. Tell me, what are these contraptions?”

He held out one of the Dornish diagrams, which Willas took with a knowing smile as his eyes looked between the two girls.

“Ahh, these are known as Scorpions, after the creatures that inhabit the deserts of Dorne where they were first invented. Well that, and I am assured they pack a powerful sting.” Willas said, “It is said that one of these took down the Dragon Meraxes, and that they are the reason for the failed invasions of Dorne.”

“King Stannis has given instruction that every Keep in the Southern kingdoms should have one of these Scorpions mounted upon its walls, while Kings Landing has many with men training to use them.” Lady Margaery said, turning a wooden dragon marker in her hands as she spoke.

“We shall do the same.” Sansa decreed, as she pressed a soft, fleeting touch to the lady’s hand, “It is a good idea, and will serve us well should the dragons attempt to be used against us.”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of red as Lady Margaery pressed her own hand against Sansa’s and offered her a sweet smile. Brynden resisted the urge to roll his eyes, not even the flirting between Jon and Tormund, or Ser Jaime and Brienne had been so painful to witness.

“Aye, we will send out copies of the plans by raven this very night.” Brynden agreed, “I doubt the Dragon Queen will reach this far North, but it does not hurt to be prepared.”

“It is for that reason that I would have a favour to ask of you, Queen Sansa.” Willas said, bowing once more, “I would ask that my sweet sister be allowed to remain in Winterfell, where the Dothraki and dragons will be unlikely to tread.”

It was obvious what Sansa’s response would be, even before she said it, but Willas had to ask all the same.

“Of course she may. Lady Margaery will be welcome in Winterfell for as long as she wishes.”

Brynden bit back a groan as he realised what Lady Margaery’s presence would mean, as he realised how much more flirting he would have to bear witness to. It almost made him look forward to having to ride out with an army again.

Almost.

* * *

Jon’s letter and the information from the citadel had sparked the latest round of preparations, already the letters were written to call the banners, and smiths and carpenters had been sent the plans for the Scorpions that it was said could kill a dragon.

He and Sansa spent time, holed up in her solar, discussing the options they had available and the supply caravans that would need to be put in place when he marched South once more. The only boon that Brynden could see this time, was that they would not have to pay a toll to cross the Twins, not when Sansa’s own sworn shield was Lady of the Twins. They could reuse some of the lines that Robb had once used, the routes and stopping places that his armies had utilised, a fact that made this planning bittersweet, for Brynden knew that Sansa would rather have her brother planning a war against an invader than herself.

The Maester entered the room at a hurry, his face reddened from exertion and his chains clanking as they swung against his chest.

“A raven for you, my queen.” The Maester said, bowing as he handed it over to her, “I believe it comes from Dragonstone.”

Sansa nodded politely back, “Thank you, Maester. I doubt it is good news, so would you please go and ensure that all the ravens are prepared for travel. They will likely be needed very soon indeed.”

The Maester bowed and backed out of the room, leaving Brynden and Sansa alone with the scroll and their piles of paperwork.

“Should I open it, uncle? Or shall we savour our last moments of ignorance?” Sansa said, sounding very much like Cat for a moment. She too had had a wry way of looking at the world sometimes.

Brynden sighed and sank into his chair, he wished that merely not reading the letter would offer them some form of break from the bad news it surely contained, but unfortunately that was not the way the world worked.

“Go on then, open it, lets see what nonsense the Dragon Queen has to say.”

Sansa’s lips quirked up into a smirk, one that disappeared as she started to smoothly read out the letter.

_‘To the Traitor and False Queen Sansa Stark,_

_You have crowned yourself a false queen of my kingdom, you have consorted with traitors and carry a traitor’s blood._

_Your brother and lords are in my hands, bend the knee._

_You are a traitor to the Iron Throne and the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

_Bend the knee or I shall destroy Winterfell._

_Bend the knee or I shall kill your precious family._

_Bend the knee or you will watch as my dragons destroy your lands._

_Bend the knee or you will watch as my Dothraki rape and pillage your smallfolk._

_Bend the knee or I will burn you slowly until your flesh melts from your bones._

_Bend the knee or I will come for you myself._

_Signed,_

_Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_ _Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The Protector of the Realm. Queen of Mereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, The Mother of Dragons, The Unburnt.’_

The direwolves growled as Sansa trailed off, their lips curled back to reveal their teeth, an expression that they had only ever show on the brink of battle.

“Well uncle,” Sansa said wryly, “It seems we are at war.”

Brynden could only nod, “Seven protect us all.”


	29. Bran

_Red and gold, and white and green standards blew in the wind. An army stood beneath them, thousands strong, many more men than Bran had ever seen in one place. It took some time for him to recognise the green hand against a white field that stood next to the golden lion of the Lannisters, but when he did he could not hold in his gasp._

_It was the banner of the now extinct House Gardener. The House that had been destroyed during Aegon’s conquest, the House which had been wiped out during the Field of Fire._

_He got the sinking feeling he knew exactly what he was to be witnessing._

_The sound of horns blasting drew his attention to the other side of the field, where an army a fifth of the size of the Lannister-Gardener army stood. Above their heads flew the threatening black and red three headed dragon of House Targaryen, and had Bran not already known the outcome of the battle he would have expected the Targaryen armies to lose._

_Bran did not know why he was being shown this vision, perhaps it was a warning of some kind, of tactics that should not be used, or perhaps it was to prepare him for a loss to come._

_Either way he made sure to pay attention._

_The horns blew once more, this time from both sides of the field, and a charge began. Except, it was only the Gardener and Lannister armies that truly charged, the Targaryen changed their formation, falling back in a move that Bran knew was a trap._

_It was a move that Robb and Jon and Theon had studied in their lessons, one that Robb had explained to him back when it was just the two of them and Rickon in Winterfell. Robb had spoken so animatedly, so engrossed with the tale of the tactics of men long gone that Bran could not help but listen and take in every word._

_And now it played out before him, as the centre of the Targaryen line crumpled, to draw their opponents in further, as the flanks moved back out of the way of the assault they knew was coming._

_There was a moment of stillness upon the air, of anticipation like the sort of a deer before a huntsman._

_The silence broke._

_The pounding of wings through the air and the roaring of terrible creatures was all that could be heard, blocking out even the cries of battle. The scent of burning, of fire and ash overpowered the gruesome stench of battle._

_The dragons had come._

_They opened their mouths and released great plumes of fire, aiming them at the men below. As the flames melted armour and melted flesh from bone the screaming started. Screams that overpowered all else._

_Bran felt like screaming himself at the sight of flesh melting from bones and the terrified screams of horses and men alike as the dragons swooped down once more._

_Suddenly he was among the men himself, surrounded by the panicking men and horses. The scent of burning flesh was thick here, the terror almost palpable. No one in Westeros had seen the true destructive power of the dragons before this day._

_A man stood to his side, tears streaming down his face and a golden crown of hands circling his helm. He surveyed the destruction around him and he wept._

_The last Gardener King, watching the destruction of his people, watching as their last stand failed, and instead of raging he wept._

_A dragon passed overhead again, raining flames down upon them, and although they did not touch him, Bran could see their destructive power. He could see it in the golden hands meting from the helm of the dying King, could see it in the charred corpses that lay upon the blackened ground, could see it in the banners that had once stood so proud burning._

_The green hands and golden lions changed to leaping trout and black stags and Bran could do nothing but watch as they burned._

* * *

Bran quite liked the Dreadfort, he quite liked the people there and spending time with Rickon and Torva and Munda. He even quite liked spending time with Tommen once he had been sent from Winterfell.

He did not like being so far from his sisters or uncle though, did not like that he was in Jon’s home without Jon being there. He did not like the mournful looks that Tormund would occasionally send out of the window whenever he thought no one was watching.

But Bran could not do anything about that, not when he understood why things were the way they were.

He did try to make things a bit easier for Tormund though, and for Gilly and Satin who cared for them all. Bran was the oldest, he was ten which was practically a man grown, so he tried to make sure that Rickon behaved himself and that Tommen did not accidently insult any of the Free Folk who lived in the castle.

He hadn’t been there though to stop the comment that Rickon had made about Satin’s name, but he had made his little brother apologise afterwards, even if Satin had laughed it off. Mother had always said that they should apologise if they insult someone, and while Rickon didn’t really remember mother, that didn’t mean he could ignore all her lessons. Not while he still had siblings to enforce them.

Sometimes though, Bran felt very little, he felt as small as he was when father was still Lord of Winterfell. When he woke up from one of his horrible visions and had Gilly by his side, stroking his hair and singing him to sleep, that was one of the times. Or when Tormund picked him up like he weighed nothing at all and carried him around, that too made him feel small.

It was nice to feel protected and safe, to know that these people cared for him and would risk their lives to keep him and his siblings safe should the dragons come closer. Most of Bran’s recent dreams had featured the dragons, and they had sparked a healthy fear in him, a terror of what was to come.

“Bran?” Rickon entered the room at a slightly more sedate pace than usual, but then, he had been running around in the woods outside the Dreadfort with Tormund’s daughters quite a lot.

“What is it Rickon?” Bran answered, he placed the book he had been trying to read back down. As interesting as the history of the Red Kings was in their own words undoubtedly his little brother’s words would be more important.

“Tormund wants to see you in Jon’s solar. I think its something to do with the raven Sansa sent us last week.”

The letter which had informed them that Jon’s efforts were for naught, that he was a prisoner on Dragonstone and that they were now officially at war. When the letter had arrived Tormund had raged before sinking into a sort of melancholia for a day or so. He was mostly normal again now, determined to get Jon back and given an enemy to fight to make it so, all he was waiting on was for the banners to be called so he could march South.

Jon’s solar was on the same floor as the room Bran had been given, a boon in itself for it meant he did not have to call for someone to help him with the stairs, instead he could just wheel himself where he wanted to go.

“Rickon said you wanted to see me?” Bran said softly once he had wheeled himself into the room.

Tormund waited until he had stopped by the fire before sitting down opposite him and looking him straight in the eyes.

“You sent a bird to us before, did you not?” Tormund said in a gruff, but kind voice. “Do you think you would be able to do it again? To send one to Jon?”

Bran had not thought of that, it was a long way to be sure, but he did not think it would be too long a distance. He would not have to contend with the magics of the Wall, nor the fear of being found by the Others; he would, however, have to avoid the three dragons if he did not want to be reduced to a pile of ash while inside the mind of a bird.

He could not use a raven, not when they would be obvious to the Westerosi under the Dragon Queen’s command. A raven would be more likely to be shot down than anything else, especially if it was seen to fly near one of the prisoners they had taken. Besides, ravens did not like the sea a great deal, he would be better suited to use a sea bird of some kind.

Thank the Old Gods that the Dreadfort was close enough to the water to have gulls venture near, for one of those would be ideal.

He would have to catch one, have to tie a piece of paper around its leg so that Jon knew to speak to the bird, and have to make a place for himself inside its mind. But none of those were undoable, after all, as Tormund had said, he had done them before when Beyond the Wall, and at least with a gull he would not have to worry about the weight that it could bear as he had done with the robins.

He nodded, “Aye, I think I can do that.”

* * *

_Dark hair and dark clothes and a familiar face. He dove down towards the man, and the men beside him, one with pale hair, the other with sandy._

_The parapet before them was a good place to land, sheltered from the wind and the eyes of the castle. He landed before them, and squawked loudly to ensure their attention was on him._

_The pale haired one tried to flap at him, to make him leave, but he ignored him. He did not quite know why, but he knew it was important that the dark haired one see him, that he see his leg._

_“Wait,” The dark haired one aid, “Am I going silly or does it have something on its leg?”_

_He squawked again in agreement, glad that at least one of them seemed to have some intelligence. He lifted his leg so that they could remove the scrap of paper tied there, one sealed with pale grey wax._

_“What does it say?” The pale haired one leaned in eagerly, only to frown in disappointment when he found he could not understand the words written._

_“Oh. It’s written in code. It’s a code that Robb and I made up years ago, I taught Arya once as well, what feels like ages ago now, back when we were marching on Kings Landing.” He scanned the paper with narrowed eyes, “Its from Bran, he said to talk and he will hear me?”_

_“What does that mean? Do you think Bran entertains himself by being deliberately cryptic?” The sandy haired one said with a huff of laughter._

_The dark haired one did not answer, instead he leaned in closer until he was looking him directly in the eyes. “Bran?”_

_He recognised the name and squawked once more, he knew that this was why he was here._

_“Thank the gods,” The dark haired one breathed, “Bran, listen to me, you need to tell Sansa that they are going to attack Casterly Rock. I overheard the Imp discussing the sewers with the Dragon Queen. Casterly Rock and Lannisport need to prepare for an attack.”_

_“You can’t believe that this bird is your brother Jon.” The pale one said, “That is just absurd.”_

_“Its true,” The one who smelled of the sea said, “Robb used to become his wolf, its what won us the battle at Oxcross. The Starks are weird like that.”_

_“Shut up Theon.” A gentle shove and then attention was focused back on him, “Bran, it is really important you get that message to Sansa or Brynden. They’ll know what to do next. And, and tell Tormund I love him alright? And that I’m sorry I got myself into trouble again.”_

_He flapped his wings in acknowledgment, and gently pecked at the dark one’s hand, a reminder for something he did not quite understand._

_“That was unnecessary.” He was scolded, “But yes, I love you and the others as well, although you should know that without me saying anything. Do either of you have anything to say?”_

_His companions shrugged then the sandy haired one leaned forwards, “Tell someone to give Grey-wind a cuddle for me. And if you can, tell Asha I’m sorry I got captured yet again.”_

_The two of them turned to the final member of their trio, who held his hands up, “I am not talking to a bird. Not even if it is a magic bird.”_

Bran startled awake, laughter in his throat at the words of Aegon Targaryen. For a man with magic in his blood, a man whose ancestors had used dragons to conquer a continent and whose aunt even now claimed to be the mother to three, he had very little belief or patience in the use of magic.

He sobered up though when he remembered what else had been said, when he recalled how thin and tired Jon looked. When he remembered Jon’s warning about Casterly Rock.

It was important that he passed on the message as soon as he could, that Sansa and Uncle Brynden were warned, so that they would have the chance to save the lives of people in the Westerlands. For all that Bran still did not really like Jaime Lannister, he also did not want innocent people to die.

Bran took a deep breath and called out for the Maester and for Tormund, he would not fail Jon.


	30. Sansa

Bran’s message had arrived with a horrifying haste, as though the raven itself knew how important the message it carried was. It was a message that Sansa had sent onwards, to Kings Landing and Casterly Rock and Riverrun.

The one to Casterly Rock contained an additional message though, one which Jeyne had included, one telling Lannister to take his people to the Crag where they would be safe. The Crag was Jeyne’s home, and while it had fallen to Robb and his armies, it was also far enough away from the Gold Road to be of much tactical value to the Dragon Queen.

The planned attack made a horrible sort of sense, for who would know the defences of Casterly Rock better than a Lannister? A knowledge of the defences and passageways of Winterfell had allowed Sansa and her armies to retake the castle from the Boltons, and Tyrion Lannister had that same knowledge of his family’s own castle.

Sansa knew how he coveted that castle as well, the home which his father had never promised him despite his brother’s oath to inherit no property. She knew it had been one of the reasons he had so eagerly agreed to a betrothal between them, the hope that if not he, then at least one of his sons would inherit.

Sansa shuddered at the thought. The idea of a Lannister touching her in that way, of her carrying a Lannister within her body was abhorrent in every way to her. She swallowed down her disgust and resolved to hug her Uncle again, to thank him for removing her from Kings Landing before they had a chance to wed her to any Lannister, for she was under no illusions that had Tyrion Lannister died from his injuries at the Blackwater that they would not have wed her to some other Lannister.

But even with her hatred of the Lannisters, even with the hatred she felt for that family and the pain they had caused her own, she still went and prayed in the Godswood for the people of the Westerlands. She prayed that the raven would reach them in time enough that they might escape the siege upon their home, that they might escape from the forces directed by a man from a family which was supposed to keep them safe.

It was a betrayal of the very laws which governed their society and kept anarchy from forming, a betrayal on par with that of the Freys and the Boltons.

Sansa rolled her shoulders back and straightened in her chair, there was little use in dwelling upon the events in the Westerlands for the moment, not when she could not do anything more to help them at present.

Grey-Wind whined and padded his way over to her, placing his great head down in her lap. Theon’s request, detailed in Bran’s letter, flashed to the forefront of her mind and she leant back down to lather love upon him. She knew that Grey-Wind missed Theon, for he would go and stand outside the door to his chambers and whine mournfully, the same way he would with Robb’s chambers.

She pressed a kiss upon his furry head, and for the briefest of moments could have sworn his eyes turned Tully blue, that it was her brother’s eyes gazing at her out of his wolf. But the moment passed and Sansa shook her head, surely it was just a trick of the light mixed with wishful thinking, for Robb was dead and gone and no part of him lived on in his wolf.

“I know boy,” She said softly instead, “I miss them too. When all of this is over we’ll go away for a week or so, we’ll go and visit the Wall, or White Harbour maybe, or if the weather is nice enough I might see if we can have a hunt like the one father arranged for when Robb turned three and ten, the one which went on for a week with many lords and their heirs attending.”

It was sweet to think about such things, to dream that they might live through the threat of the Targaryen and her dragons as they had survived the Others. But even if Sansa survived, even if her family survived, it was almost certain that many others would die, and that was something that nearly had her weeping.

For the first time since Robert Baratheon’s death the realms had been at peace, a solid peace even, one forged through alliances and friendships and contracts sworn between monarchs.

Sansa had been under no illusions that the peace would have lasted forever, at some point there would have been an over ambitious or power hungry ruler who sought to expand their kingdoms, but she had hoped that the peace would at least last until her death.

She was not a wartime monarch, not in her heart. She found no glory in sending men to their deaths, no glory in widows and orphans being made because of the whims of the highborn.

Sansa was not obtuse, she knew the crown was only upon her head because of a war, she knew the only reason she was queen was because Robb had waged war and that Stannis had needed her armies. She knew all that.

But she did not have to like it.

Robb would have been a better leader to face the Dragon Queen. He would have been able to fight her, to command his own armies, rather than depend on others. He would not have been stuck in Winterfell, unable to do anything but write letters and pray for his family’s safety. Robb should have been King, for surely he would not be as useless as she was.

A rough tongue licked her face, knocking her from the maudlin turn of her thoughts. Grey-Wind stood there, a wolfish grin upon his face and Sansa buried her face in his fur once more.

She might not have her brother, but she did have his wolf, and if she tried very hard she could almost believe that it was almost as good.

(But she knew it wasn’t)

* * *

“Come on.” Jeyne Poole appeared at the door to Sansa’s solar with the same mischievous expression she had worn as a girl, “We are going to the glass gardens and having a picnic. It is too nice a day to spend locked up with paperwork.”

It was true, the weather was glorious, the sun bright and warm with not a cloud in the sky. It was the sort of day that Sansa would have happily spent hours upon hours sat in the sun with her embroidery and her friends once upon a time.

Now she merely appreciated it for it was the sort of weather which might encourage more crops to start to grow, the sort of weather which might help her people not go hungry.

She looked down at the paperwork again, at the reports from her lords about the armies they might muster, about the supplies they could bring. She looked at the pleas for aid from a lord whose tenants had flooded fields, at the numbers of those born and those who had died over the past month. She looked at all the work she had to do and felt like she might weep.

Whoever had said ruling was all about glory was a liar, it mostly seemed to be about paperwork and putting out fires as they arose.

“Come on,” Jeyne encouraged again, “The kingdom will not fall apart without you at its helm for one afternoon. Even your father took time off sometimes.”

Jeyne was perhaps one of the few people left who could still use memories of Ned Stark in that way, and, with perhaps less reluctance than she should have felt, Sansa let herself be persuaded.

Her hand linked in Jeyne’s own, the way it had when they were both innocent of the horrors of the world, and she let herself be led down to the glass gardens, and again once inside to the alcove of daffodils that Sansa’s mother had planted when she realised how much Sansa adored ‘Florian and Jonquil’.

Here, more than most places, Sansa still felt the influence of her mother, and it had an instant calming effect.

“I took the liberty of preparing sustenance and entertainment for us.” Jeyne said, as she threw back the covering of a basket with a flourish.

Inside lay lemoncakes, fresh baked and still warm to the touch, their scent filling Sansa’s nose and causing a smile to form on her face. Beneath them lay a book of stories, the old romantic fables that they both loved so much, ones which they likely could still recite without the book there to guide them.

“This looks wonderful.” Sansa said softly, but with emotion. “Thank you so much.”

Jeyne smiled at her, “Nothing is too much, you work too hard. It worries us all, you know.”

Sansa looked down at her lap, she knew she worked a lot, knew she worked far more than Cersei Lannister ever had, but that was because she wanted to be different to her, wanted to be a good queen.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face for Jeyne gently reached forwards and cradled her cheek, “You are a good queen, Sansa. You love all your people, and in return they love you. But you can do no good if you are exhausted. So sit back, eat a lemoncake, and I am going to read us ‘Florian and Jonquil’.”

Sansa did as she was bade, aware of the truth of Jeyne’s words, and unwilling to spurn the kindness of her oldest friend. Jeyne smiled at her and cracked open the book, thumbing through to the well worn pages of their shared favourite story.

“Jonquil was one of six sisters, and the fairest maid of all of them…”

* * *

Sansa woke up with a scream.

She could still feel the lashes across her back, the humiliation of her dress being torn away, the terror of hands holding her down. For a time she had thought that her nightmares of being in Kings Landing were gone, but it seemed the news of Jon being taken as a hostage had brought them back.

Sansa did not know what to do, she could not bring herself to leave her bed to find her sister or uncle, nor could she just lay there until dawn broke. Her nightdress felt soaked with sweat, cool and clammy against her skin and Sansa wanted little more than to get rid of it, but she could not convince herself to move from the safe cocoon of her blankets. 

She tensed at the sound of footsteps on the floor, until she realised that they were accompanied by the clicking of claws against the stone. She had not realised that Lady had left her room, a move she had likely done while Sansa was in the grips of her nightmare, but it seemed her direwolf had gone to collect someone who could help her.

Lady was a good girl, and Sansa thanked the Gods every single day that they had returned her to her side.

A slight figure pushed under the blankets on her bed, and Sansa soon felt the skinny arms of her sister wrap around her.

“Go back to sleep.” Arya murmured sleepily, “I’ll kick whoever hurt you’s asses in the morning.”

Sansa twisted so that Arya was pressed along her back, “You can’t. They are already dead.” She said plainly, “Besides, I’m worried about Jon and Theon. What if the Dragon Queen is like the Lannisters?”

Arya’s arms tightened their hold and she sounded much more alert as she spoke.

“If the Dragon Queen or any of her men harm so much as a head on our brothers’ heads then I shall rip her own head off and feed the rest of her corpse to Nymeria.”

Sansa believed wholeheartedly that Arya would do that if she could, Arya could be vindictive when she wanted to be. Bloodthirsty as well, but then, she always had been, she had adored Old Nan’s stories of the Red Kings and the bloody violence of the Age of Legends far more than anyone else had.

“But what, what if she hurts them for my defiance? What if it is my fault that they get hurt?”

Arya went very quiet and very still for a moment, before speaking with a low intensity in her voice, “Daenerys Targaryen’s actions will never be anyone’s fault but her own. Nothing that you do will force her hand, there is always a second option. If she hurts anyone then that is her fault and not yours, or do you blame Robb for Joffrey having his Kingsguard beat you?”

“No.” Sansa did not even have to think about her answer, “Of course not. It is hardly Robb’s fault that Joffrey was sadistic enough to have me punished for actions over which I held no control.”

“Well then. There you have it.” Arya sounded so much like their mother it _ached_ , “If Robb was not responsible for Joffrey’s actions, then you are not responsible for the Dragon Queen’s.”

Logically Sansa understood Arya’s point, but she still felt a pool of guilt in her stomach at the thought of Jon or Theon or any of the lords she had sent to the parlay being hurt because of any actions that she took. She wondered if Robb had felt the same way, if mother had felt the same way, even while they warred to have her and Arya returned to them.

“Go back to sleep now” Arya finally mumbled, her voice heavy with sleep, “I’ll beat up anyone who makes you sad. And if you make yourself sad, well, then I’ll beat you up as well.”

Sansa smiled slightly as she snuggled back into her sister’s arms, it was nice to have Arya’s vindictive and vengeful ways aimed at protecting her rather than directed at her.

If only mother and father could have lived to see it. They would hardly have believed their own eyes.

* * *

_‘Queen Sansa,_

_I thank you for your warning, it gave us enough time to evacuate the castle, the city and the surrounding lands of the smallfolk and of any resources that the Dragon Queen might have found useful._

_It was a wrench to leave my home behind, but my people were more important. Send my thanks to the Dowager Queen for ordering the doors of the Crag open for my people, it will not save us if the dragons come, but it should save us from the Dothraki hordes._

_I left men behind, on the hills and cliffs around the Rock so that they might tell us of the Dragon Queen’s tactics and the behaviours of her armies._

_They came in the night, using the sewers that Tyrion once built, the passage he used to sneak whores in. I do believe he had forgotten of my memory of said passage, and of how he had boasted to me of his cleverness once it was completed._

_My little brother did always believe he was the smartest of us all, but he never was very good at holding his tongue while drunk._

_Those men I left behind to act as a token defensive force did as they were assigned, they utilised every advantage they could, every weapon they could, and they culled the Dragon Queen’s Unsullied forces. They say that of the three thousand that were sent to take the Rock, only half remain._

_They fell to spiked pits, to arrows and burning oil, and to poison that we laced those skins of wine and parcels of food we left behind._

_In return for their losses they set the lands around the Rock on fire, they burnt the vines and farmlands and houses of the smallfolk. They slaughtered all who crossed their paths. None of the men I left behind survived. And of those who were spying from the hills and cliffs, only a third managed to evade the Dragon Queen’s armies to return to me._

_Their tactics are brutal, their commanders even more so. No option of a surrender was given, no man left alive or taken prisoner. Her tactics make me believe that she would sooner burn Tommen than let him live in peace, that she would sooner watch a child die than believe he has relinquished all claim to that infernal throne. Keep my son safe Your Grace, this I beg of you._

_I am calling my banners, the Westerlands will not fold before another mad monarch._

_Jaime of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT 02/08/2020: I forgot to say earlier that if you want some more about Grey-Wind and Robb in this ‘verse check out ‘A Direwolf and His Bonded’


	31. Jon

They had all been summoned to the throne room, undoubtedly to pay witness to some great victory of the Dragon Queen’s. an intimidation and scare tactic, one that would make Daenerys Targaryen and her advisors feel tall.

It was a shame that Jon already knew that their plan had failed, that their target had been forewarned.

“We took Casterly Rock, Your Grace.” Tyrion Lannister bowed before his queen.

Jon took in the anxious set of his shoulders, the way his head was bowed a touch further than usual, and felt hope bloom in his chest.

“Well that certainly sounds like good news.” Daenerys leaned forwards in her throne with a bloodthirsty smile, “Is the traitorous Kingslayer dead?”

“No, Your Grace.” Lannister stood surprisingly firm beneath the glare directed his way. “The castle was all but abandoned, supplies were laced with poison and traps were set for us. Somehow they knew we were coming.”

“So you failed me.” The words were so simple, considering how condemning they could be. “Perhaps it was you who gave your brother warning, your blood calling stronger than your oaths.”

“I would never fail you, my queen.” Lannister’s voice took on a hint of desperation, “Bring the Unsullied back, commit to the blockade of Kings Landing, we can still win this. We have the right plan.”

A dragon screeched outside, “The right plan? Your plan has lost us my men, you proposed we take hostages and yet they have done nothing to keep their liege’s from defying me.”

Jon’s eye met Theon’s, and he felt a sudden rush of anger on his behalf. Theon had spent years as a hostage, years knowing that his life was forfeit should his father rebel, and had only briefly tasted freedom from such circumstances before being made hostage again. For a moment Jon wanted his father there, in front of him, so he could shake him and ask why he thought it right to hold Theon as hostage, why he had thought it right to rip him from his mother’s arms and make him live with a perpetual sword hanging over his head.

He hadn’t really realised Theon’s true position before their time on Dragonstone, but now, now he understood it perfectly and it made him sad.

“Enough with the clever plans, Lord Tyrion, I have three large dragons I can fly directly to the Red Keep or to Winterfell.” Daenerys stood, her face twisted into a strange expression of blood lust and joy, a move that drew all eyes to her, “My enemies reside there, why should I not remove them myself? What sort of queen would I be if I am not willing to risk my life for my people and my throne?”

There were so many horrific things about Daenerys’ words that Jon found he had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat. One image stuck in his mind though, the image of those dragons flying over Winterfell, over the castle which contained his little sisters.

“No!” The word burst from his mouth without permission, his mind still stuck on the horrific image of fire raining down upon Arya and Sansa.

Every head in the hall turned to look at him, and it was only the memory of his sibling’s laughter that kept him from flinching away.

“No?” The Dragon Queen said slowly, as though she was unused to hearing such a word and had to dig for its meaning, “Did you just disagree with me, Jon Stark?”

Jon injected steel into his spine and tilted his chin up defiantly. “Aye, I did.”

There was the sharp hiss of an indrawn breath somewhere in the room, but other than that it was so silent you might have heard a pin drop.

“And what,” Daenerys Targaryen’s voice was soft and dangerous, “Gives you that right? What gives you the right to disagree with your rightful queen?”

A whisper of movement behind Jon’s back and the slightest hint of warmth told him that Theon and Aegon had shifted closer to him, prepared to back him up if this turned into a fight.

“You are not my queen.” Jon disagreed, “My queen listens to her council. My queen acknowledges the fears and opinions of those who disagree with her, even if she does not use their advice. My queen is only a girl of four and ten.”

The air started to almost crackle, and Jon braced himself for the anger that was sure to be directed his way, braced himself the demands for his head or to be thrown into the cells beneath them.

Instead the unexpected happened: One of Daenerys’ closest advisors started to laugh.

Heads turned from Jon to look upon Ser Jorah Mormont, the slaver whose head was tilted back as though he had just heard the funniest joke.

“I did tell you, my Khaleesi, that the Starks were loyal to their own. That to threaten one was to threaten all of them.”

A smile touched the Targaryen’s lips at the words and jovial tone of her sworn knight, and the tension in the room started to dissipate.

Quite unwillingly, Jon found himself thankful to Mormont, for he was sure that he had just saved him some horrible fate, and even worse, the lecture he would have received afterwards from Brynden, Tormund and Sansa.

“Of course the opposite is true as well.” This time it was Lord Varys who spoke, “To gain the support of one Stark means that every Stark will support you. They do not fight amongst themselves like the Baratheons, or Lannisters, or even your own family my queen.”

The Dragon Queen’s face took on a cunning look as once more she turned her gaze to Jon. He had the horrifying feeling that whatever she was thinking of would not be pleasant for him.

* * *

Jon hated the four walls of the room he had been given, hated the dark rock covered in places by heavy red drapes or a tapestry depicting some gruesome antic from one of his ancestors. It was horrible, almost tacky in a way for the Targaryen presence was so strong.

It just reminded him how very far from home he really was.

A knock on his door had him startling from his contemplation of home, and his imagining of what exactly his siblings and his husband were doing during that time. When he called out for whoever it was to enter, he was startled to see the Dragon Queen’s handmaiden, a bundle of cloth in her arms.

“Her Grace, Queen Daenerys, requests your presence for the evening meal. She also requests that you wear this.” Missandei announced, handing Jon the bundle.

“Thank you for the invitation, and the clothes, my lady.” Jon said, instead of the denial he so desperately wanted to unleash. He did not want to spend any time at all with the Dragon Queen, but he knew he could not refuse such a request, not while she held all the power on the island.

Missandei left without looking back at him, and Jon felt the urge to throw the clothes on the floor or out of the window instead of putting them on. He did not do any of that though, he shook them out and blanched at the elaborate cut. He had no idea where to even start putting such attire on.

He had a choice, to go to Aegon or to Theon for help. Theon had helped him before, had helped him the morning of his wedding, and yet he knew that if he went to him, he would be subjected to much mockery and teasing. Aegon might still mock him a little, but undoubtedly it would not be as fierce as Theon’s.

“Would you mind helping me?” Jon held out the clothes to Aegon once he had opened the door to his chambers.

Aegon looked at them, then up at Jon’s face, then back at the clothes again.

“I am assuming that you did not chose these?” He said, with a poorly concealed smile.

Jon merely glared at him, “Our illustrious aunt has ordered me to dine with her tonight. I expect you will receive the same invitation tomorrow. And this is what she ordered me to wear.”

Aegon looked at the clothes again, “Well I suppose it could be worse. She could have dressed you like a Dothraki or like one of the men from the Free Cities, I think you would faint near away at some of those outfits with your modesty.”

Amazingly enough, Aegon’s words did very little to make Jon feel better about wearing an outfit that looked similar in style to the one Rhaegar wore at depictions of the Tourney of Harrenhal. He wondered where the clothes might have come from, who might they have belonged to before being given to him, but when he looked at the options available, he decided he did not want to know.

The black material of the doublet was stiff, the thin line of lace around the high collar itchy, and the blood red beading almost gaudy. It was a hideous ensemble, and Jon felt so very uncomfortable wearing it, longing for his usual soft wool and leather, or even the rough wool of his Night’s Watch Blacks.

Aegon smirked at him when he was done, but refrained from commenting further, undoubtedly aware that he would be undergoing a similar treatment the next day. He wished Jon luck instead as he left, along with a reminder of how to reach Daenerys’ chambers.

“Ahh, Jon.” Daenerys inclined her head slightly to him when he arrived, “I am so pleased you accepted my invitation. And I must say, you do clean up well. Viserys’ clothes look very nice on you indeed.”

Her leer was almost uncomfortable enough to make Jon forget the disgust he felt at the revelation that he was wearing Viserys Targaryen’s clothing. Almost.

“My lady.” He bowed his head just short of respectfully, a minor insult he could only get away with because of her lack of knowledge of Westerosi customs. “I thank you for the invitation.”

She gestured for him to sit at the table laden with food, and he did so, on the only chair available, one which set him opposite her in a mockery of an intimate setting.

“Tell me, nephew.” Daenerys brought her goblet to her lips and sipped the blood red wine within, her piercing eyes never leaving Jon’s face, “Tell me why I should not just have you and your brother dragged to the remains of the Sept to wed me.”

Jon swallowed against the itchy lace of his collar and desperately tried to think of some way to convince her against such a plan.

“Because-” He swallowed again and set his shoulders as though entering battle, “Because should you wed Aegon or I, all your deeds would be attributed to us. Your successes would be ours, while your failures would be your own; and that is something you do not want.”

Daenerys levelled him with an inscrutable gaze and Jon found himself resisting the urge to shift in place. If he failed to convince her then he was sure that he would be dragged kicking and screaming to the Sept and forced to marry his aunt.

No matter that he was already married.

But then, he supposed, the very concept of having multiple spouses was not as strange to his aunt as it was to him, she desired two husbands after all.

Slowly, after what felt like far too long, the Dragon Queen inclined her head. “You have a point, I do not want my victories, my legacy, to be attributed to two men.”

Jon let out a breath of relief, for he could picture the reaction his family and Tormund would have had should an announcement be made of a marriage to Daenerys Targaryen. He did not want them to rush in without a plan, not when it would likely mean their deaths.

“No,” Daenerys mused out loud, “No, it would be better to solidify my victory and showcase my power by wedding you both then. You would prevent the Northern kingdoms from rising in rebellion once more, while Aegon would subdue Dorne and the Crownlands.

Jon hated to admit it, but it would be a politically sound move on Daenerys’ part. An unkind part of him wondered which of her advisors had suggested such a thing, for it did not seem like the sort of decision she would come to on her own.

“My advisors tell me it will be worth my time to woo you, dear nephew, so tell me, if I could give you anything then what would it be?”

_Freedom._

Jon did not say that though. He was not so honest that he risked angering her, not when it seemed that he might have a slight reprieve from her attentions and attempts to get him in her bed. It would have to be small then, almost insignificant in the long run, but something that would aid them should they have the chance to escape.

“My sword and my companions’ weapons, so that we might train.” Jon asked for, his gaze firmly on the space wall behind the Dragon Queen, “We are unused to being so idle, and I must confess I feel rather naked without Longclaw upon my hip.”

Daenerys let out a light, tinkling laugh, “Well that is easy enough to grant. And your sword is a fine piece of steel I will grant you that. The pommel will have to change though, when you are my husband, it would not do for a Targaryen prince to carry a sword with a wolf on it. I dragon, a think, will be much more suitable.”

Jon gritted his teeth and forced the thanks from his lips. He would sooner give up the sword forever than see the gift from Lord Mormont, the likeness of Ghost, erased from its hilt.

* * *

“Prince Jon.”

Jon turned around to greet the lords Sansa had sent with him to Dragonstone, lords who had spent most of their time with the elder lords of King Stannis’ delegation, just as Jon had spent most of his time with Theon and Aegon. They still met regularly, of course, to discuss heir plan of action for dealing with Daenerys Targaryen and her cronies, but their free time was most often spent apart.

“Lord Piper, Lord Royce. How can I help you?”

“We were wondering, my lord, whether you had heard anything from the Queen? Only, you did not seem surprised to hear that the assault on Casterly Rock had failed.” Lord Piper said, his eyes boring questioningly into Jon’s own.

“My brother knows what is happening on this island, have no fear. He reports to the Queen with regularity.” Jon reassured the lords, “We are not forgotten here, my lords, I can assure you that a plan to free us is already underway.”

Lord Piper seemed to settle a little at those words, at the reassurance that he had not been forgotten by Sansa. Lord Royce however seemed to still have other problems on his mind.

“I do not like the way in which Lannister talks of the Queen.” He said, “He seems to believe he has some claim on her. Like a kinslayer and Lannister would ever be good enough for Her Grace.”

“I do not like it either.” Jon admitted to the Vale Lord, “But we can do nothing about it. Lannister is one of the Dragon Queen’s favoured, and to threaten him would surely bring her wrath down upon us.”

Jon knew how protective Lord Royce was of Sansa and the rest of his siblings, knew that it was because of his friendship with Brynden and his memories of the father as a youth.

“Is there nothing else we can do?” Lord Royce asked, “Must we merely listen to the lusts of Lannister and his plans to trap our Queen?”

Jon sighed and dropped his gaze, “I- I might be able to do something. The Dragon Queen has announced her fondness of me, I might be able to use that to gain a promise of Lannister being allowed no where near my sister should we lose.”

Both lords’ eyes were horribly understanding as they looked at him, and he could have sworn he saw pity in the gaze of Lord Piper. They knew exactly what he meant, and Jon swallowed down the bile that wanted to rise at the thought of bargaining with his body.

It would be worth it though, if it kept his family safe.

* * *

The singular good thing about being trapped on an island, was that they were given free reign of it, seeing as there was no way for them to escape.

Sometimes Jon would use that freedom to go and see the dragons, to try and get inside their minds and forge a bond with them. Sometimes he went and watched the training of the Unsullied and Dothraki, to understand their tactics and weaknesses.

And sometimes he just wandered around the island with Theon, or Aegon, or both, just talking and trying to forget the ever looming threat above their heads.

“Why does she want to marry you so badly?” Theon waggled his eyebrows, “Aegon, I get, but you? Maybe she needs her eyesight checked.”

Jon shoved Theon lightly, “Prat.”

Then shoved him back, “No, really? What woman looks at that pouty face of yours and falls for it when there are much better looking men around?”

“Why, volunteering yourself there Greyjoy?”

Theon shuddered, “No thanks. I’ve had my fill of bloodthirsty maniacs with a god complex.”

There was a moment of quiet before Theon let out a bark of laughter, “Never thought I would joke about that!”

Jon cracked a grin, “Its all those cuddles with Grey-Wind, he’s healed you with the power of wolf cuddles.”

“That is a possibility.” Theon admitted, his voice went tentative when he next spoke, “Do- Do you ever get the feeling that some part of Robb is still alive in his wolf?”

Jon turned to answer, turned to respond that he too sometimes saw flashes of Tully blue within the wolf’s eyes, when the ground disappeared beneath him. He fell down a steep incline, rolling and sliding in turn down the rock and grass, until he landed at the bottom in a small cove.

“Fuck!” He cried out from the bottom of the drop, the only word that he felt could possibly convey how he felt.

“You alright Snow?” Theon called down, his tone and bearing concerned.

Jon lay back against the black pebbles and tried to let his breath come back, “I think I’m fine. I might need a hand out of here though, see if there’s another way down.”

The sound of scrambling down loose rock made its way to his ears, but Jon was still too winded to sit up to watch Theon’s descent. He was pretty sure he had not broken anything, just that he would be horribly bruised for the next couple of weeks.

“Come on, up you get.” Theon said, standing over Jon and reaching and arm down to help him up.

Jon let himself be pulled up, his legs unsteady on the uneven ground and his muscles aching bad enough it took him a few moments to find his balance. He leaned on Theon’s shoulder the entire time, and as he did so, something caught his eye.

“Theon,” Jon whispered, “Look.”

He pointed at the object and when Theon turned to see what it was he had seen his friend gasped.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

“That I am, Snow.” Theon said, his eyes wide, “That I am.”

“Theon,” Jon said in awe, his eyes never leaving the tiny boat, “I think we may have just found our way off this accursed rock.”


	32. Arya

Arya struggled to concentrate as she danced around the training yard, Needle in her hand. She knew this routine, had done it dozens of times before, and yet she kept going wrong.

She screamed in frustration as her foot slipped out from under her once again, and almost threw her precious sword to the floor. The only thing which stopped her from doing so was the fact that it had been a present from Jon, a gift from the brother currently held hostage by a mad woman with three dragons.

Slowly Brienne crossed the yard to stand before her, her expression gently softening as she took in quite how distressed Arya was.

“We can stop if you would like.” She offered, “We can reconvene training tomorrow if you are unwell.”

Arya gritted her teeth and pushed her body back into the first position of the set, “No. I can do this.”

Brienne shook her head, like she was about to protest, but evidently she thought better of it. Arya knew she was thinking that she would give up soon, she wouldn’t though, it was not in her nature. She would not give up, not until she had completed this set perfectly or until she fell to the ground too exhausted to keep going.

If there was one thing Arya had inherited from her family it was their stubbornness, a trait gained from both her Stark and Tully blood.

Again and again her body failed her. Her stupid limbs not working as they should so the movements did not land properly.

Again and again she restarted, desperate to get it right. Desperate to have some control over her life.

And then, all of a sudden, it was too much.

She collapsed to the ground, her muscles finally giving out, and wept. The heat of the tears on her cheeks a stark contrast to the cold mud which seeped into her clothes. Sobs wracked her shoulders, and she knew that people had stopped their training to watch, but she could not bring herself to care.

Strong arms curled round her, lifting her up against a leather clad chest as though she was as young as Rickon again.

“Shhh,” Brienne whispered into her hair, “It’s alright to cry. It’s fine to be scared for your brother. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Arya clung then, to her knight master, to the lady who was training her so that she might fulfil a childhood dream. It had been s long since she had felt something close to a mother’s comfort, for while Ellaria had been kind she had always seemed like she felt more responsible for Sansa.

“But I do! I promised everyone I would be brave.”

Arya curled further into Brienne’s arms, into the offered comfort. She knew she had to be brave, she had promised everyone that she would be, she had to be strong to support Sansa.

“You don’t have to constantly be brave, you know. Not even when you promise it to someone you love. Do you think I am always brave?”

She swallowed and peered up into Brienne’s large blue eyes, “But you always seem brave.”

“Just because I seem strong it doesn’t mean I always am, sometimes I feel very weak indeed. And that is not a bad thing.” Brienne’s voice was so very soft and kind and Arya felt her tears fall even faster than before.

“But I promised.”

Brienne sighed and shifted Arya in her arms, “Just because you make a promise, it does not mean it has to be kept. Not if the promise is causing you to hurt.”

But- 

“But father had always said that a promise made was one which had to be kept.”

And he had, Father had always told them that keeping their oaths was one of the most important things they could do. And yet Brienne was telling her that sometimes there were things more important than keeping oaths.

“Keeping oaths is important, little squire,” Brienne said gently, “But so is your health. So are other things, if you pretending to be happy and brave all the time is making you sad inside then you don’t have to pretend any more. Not even if you’ve sworn an oath. And I’m sure Lord Stark knew that as well.” 

“Really?” Arya felt very small all curled up in Brienne’s arms, she felt safe. 

“Really.” Brienne smiled down at her, her blue eyes gentle in a way that contrasted fiercely with her ability on the battlefield. 

“Do- do you think my mother and father would be proud of me, Brienne? Even though I’m not the lady they hoped for?”

Brienne stroked a large, calloused hand through Arya’s hair, “I know they would be, little squire. I know they would.” 

* * *

Sansa’s scream ran through the room, and Arya’s heart stopped. She had told Bran and Rickon and Jon she would keep Sansa safe; had promised she would keep their sister from harm.

No guards had burst through the door at the screams and Arya started to fear the worst. She rushed through from the wash chamber, and screamed herself at the sight that awaited her.

A girl advanced upon Sansa, a short knife in her grasp. Likely the only reason Sansa was still alive, that she had had the time to scream, was the guard on the floor by the girl’s feet, blood leaking sluggishly from a deep wound upon his neck.

The iron coin in Arya’s pocket burned, hot enough that it felt like it might set fire to her clothes.

“Wait!” She cried, rushing between her sister and the girl, her hands outstretched in placation for all that she knew how futile the gesture truly was. It was just as likely that she too would be cut down, that she too would have her life blood spilled upon the floor.

But she had to try.

The iron coin burned even hotter, until Arya could not help but draw it out in an attempt to save herself from the intense heat.

As soon as the girl’s gaze turned to Arya, as soon as her eyes met the iron coin, it felt like everything changed.

She launched herself at Arya, her knife flung to the floor, so that as the sound of metal against stone rang out as Arya’s back met the stone.

“Who gave you this coin?” The girl hissed, her nose an inch from Arya’s, “Where did you get it? Who did you help?”

Arya blocked out the sound of Sansa’s new scream, her entire self focused purely on the girl holding her down.

“Jaqen H’ghar. I saved him from burning to death. He gave me the coin and told me to travel over the seas to find him.”

The girl bent even closer so that the tip of her nose pressed against Arya’s.

“Do you know the significance of your coin little princess?” The girl sneered, “Do you know what it means?”

“It was a gift. A poorly explained gift, but a gift nonetheless.” Arya gritted her teeth and prepared to buck the assassin off of her.

The girl shifted in place, redistributing her weight with a smirk. She had obviously sensed Arya’s preparation.

“Well, little princess, I can offer you a deal I suppose. A trade for that coin; one I am sure the Many Faced God will agree with.”

Arya grimaced, but it seemed she had no choice. The nearness of the girl, the fact that Arya knew there was no way that the dagger on the floor was the assassin’s only weapon, all of that meant that to negotiate was her only way.

“Fine, what terms do you offer wench?”

She felt like cursing herself as soon as that last word left her mouth, she had spent far too much time with the Kingslayer. It was his favourite word to use around Brienne, and she must have picked it up through sheer proximity.

“Simple, a choice. Give me the coin and I shall not fulfil the contract upon your sister, or give me the coin and I will train you in the ways of the Many Faced God. Or keep the coin, perhaps it will bring you luck some day. I will warn you though, choose any option but the first and I shall do all I can to fulfil the contract laid upon Queen Sansa by the Andal of Mereen.”

That was no choice at all.

“Take the coin and refuse to fulfil the contract.” Arya said with all the confidence she could muster. She did not want her sister to feel like she had wavered in her choice or decision for even a second.

“A good choice, little princess.” There was a cruelty to the girl’s smile, but something proud as well. “You will not regret this one.”

Arya took a deep breath, centred her mind as Jon had taught her and twisted her whole body. Her shoulders lifting and her hips bucking. Her whole self moving so that she could remove the girl pinning her down.

She had the sneaking suspicion that the assassin let her escape; but she could not help but feel a burst of satisfaction at her success as she stood up.

“You have talent, little princess. It’s a shame you chose your sister’s life over my offer of training. But a deal is a deal, give me the coin and I shall return to the House of Black and White to ensure that no one else tries to fulfil the contact.”

The coin burned fire hot in Arya’s hand for a moment, before turning as icy as the Wall. It seemed that the coin itself, the gods of the Faceless Men themselves. accepted the deal. 

She dropped it into the girl’s hand, and it felt like a weight had lifted from her shoulders. A weight she had not known she had even been carrying, vanished into thin air. 

The assassin hid the coin, and for a moment Arya thought they had got away unscathed. And then the girl darted forwards.

Her blade pressed against Arya’s cheek, the cold kiss of metal drawing all Arya’s attention as the girl looked deeply into her eyes.

“Blue eyes. Green eyes. Purple eyes. Eyes that must not see the turn of the year if the world is to be safe from fire in the air and blood running through the streets. Ash will cover us all if those eyes aren’t shut forever. The God of Death will have his due, but he is patient and prefers souls for who it is their time.” 

The blade pressed a little harder as the girl spoke, until Arya could see a thin rivulet of red start to trickle down its shiny surface. There was no pain, but the cut would certainly serve to be a reminder of the assassin’s words.

As quietly as she had appeared, so the girl left. And Arya found she could not recall a single feature of her face, nor her voice or her bearing. She knew that the girl existed, there was a cut on her face and a corpse on the floor to prove it, yet she could not remember anything about her. 

Arms wrapped around her, knocking her from her thoughts as a wet face buried itself into her neck. 

“That was so stupid of you Arya.” Sansa sobbed. “You should never have got between me and an assassin.”

Arya wrapped her own arms around Sansa, the haze of purpose now falling and allowing her terror to flood in, “And why not? You are my sister and my queen, I would step in front of any number of blades to keep you safe.”

“Well you shouldn’t. I’m the older one, I’m the one supposed to keep you safe.” 

“That’s stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’re stupidest.”

And suddenly they were giggling and crying on the floor together. The events that had just transpired still seemed so unreal, so unbelievable that they could not do anything but cry and laugh. 

But at least they were both safe. For now.   
  


* * *

‘Arry,

Robin is teaching me to write. He said that I need to learn to write if I am going to help him. He is reading this over my shoulder to make sure I write well.

I like the Vale. Mya Stone has decided I am her baby brother and that is not bad. She likes to ruffle my hair though; I now see why you don’t like it.

Mors is a good boy, he sleeps in Robin’s room at night or in mine. He misses Nymeria (did I spell that right? Why did you have to choose a difficult name for your wolf?)

We both miss you. Come and visit us soon.

Gendry.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don’t take the bit with the faceless man seriously, I took a lot creative license there, and really don’t care where I went wrong :)


	33. Brynden

_ ‘Sansa Stark and Brynden Tully, _

_ Your defiance continues to enrage the queen.  _

_ We have been patient, and now I offer you this one last chance:  _

_ Bend the knee or we shall execute Jon Snow.  _

_ Bend the knee or we shall kill Lord Piper and Lord Royce.  _

_ Dragonfire is not a kind way to go, this I can assure you. I urge you as a friend to reconsider your stance on Queen Daenerys, she is as kind as she is beautiful, and your family will retain their home.  _

_ Bend the knee, Lady Stark, Lord Brynden; or watch Jon Snow and Winterfell burn. _

_ You have two weeks. _

_ Tyrion Lannister, Hand to Queen Daenerys _ .’

Shit. Brynden collapsed back into his chair and put his head in his hands. They had known this letter would come eventually, but they thought they had more time. 

He wanted to spring into action immediately, to pen letters to the lords telling them to begin their march South, to give the signal for their armies to gather to defend the kingdoms. 

But he could not.

He did not have the power to demand such a thing, he did not have the power to make such a decision that would affect the whole kingdom. The only one with that power was his niece. 

Brynden had to go find her, had to have her opinion on this matter, not just because it was her brother in danger, but because it was her kingdom that such a proclamation affected. 

He finally tracked her down to the glass gardens, where she was taking a turn with Lady Margaery. Guilt started to burn a little in his veins at interrupting one of Sansa’s few free moments.

Sansa curled her hand around Lady Margaery’s arm at the sight of him, a possessive gesture that Brynden could not miss. A burst of sorrow filled his heart, at the knowledge that his niece could not marry the girl she so obviously loved, 

“Your Grace.” Brynden inclined his head. It was rare that he would use honourifics when speaking with his niece, but this was an occasion which truly called for it. 

“Lord Hand.” Sansa used the same honourifics, as ever aware of the correct terms of address for the situation. It was something Brynden was so proud of, her ever vigilant awareness of the appropriate way to act, and yet it made him sad as well, that she knew it so well and so intimately at such a young age. 

“There is a matter which requires your attention, Your Grace,” Brynden said softly, “We have had a missive from Dragonstone.”

Sansa paled, and Brynden just knew she thought it to be bad news, that she thought it would contain news of Jon or Theon’s deaths. 

He took her arm, and gently led her away from Lady Margaery. 

“I promise, it is not the news you think it might be, as far as we know your brothers are still alive.” He whispered in her ear, and instantly a touch of colour returned to her pale cheeks. 

He led her back to his solar, and handed her the missive. As she read the small amount of colour that had returned to her cheeks disappeared again; and slowly horror dawned on her features. 

“What do we do?” She asked in a small voice, “Do we just give in? Give up? I don’t want to lose Jon too.” 

Brynden cupped her face in his hands, “Whatever you choose will be the right thing, sweetling, if you choose to bend the knee to save your brother then no one will judge you, if you choose to sacrifice your brother to keep your people safe and free.”

Sansa took a few deep breaths and pressed her face into Brynden’s hands. “I don’t want to choose. I don't want to be the one to make that decision.” 

Brynden’s heart ached for his niece having to make that choice, at having to choose between her family and her duty. 

Sansa’s eyes closed for a moment, and when she opened them again they were filled with resolve. “I must choose my people. The lives of the many outweigh the life of my brother and that of two lords, no matter how much it pains me.”

Brynden released her and stepped back, he looked directly into her eyes and spoke as formally as he could. “Is that your decision, my Queen?”

Sansa lifted her chin “It is. Arrange a war council my Lord Hand, it's time we took the war to Daenerys Targaryen.”

  
  


* * *

Sansa had managed to get out of her own War Council, and Brynden was in no way jealous at all as he looked over the assembled lords, none of whom looked pleased with the news that Brynden had shared with them. 

“But what is to happen with Prince Jon, Lord Royce and Lord Piper? If we move our armies South surely the Dragon Queen will kill them?”

A murmur of agreement followed Lord Blackwood’s words, the lords of Sansa’s War Council voicing their own opinions of the decision. 

Brynden shook his head once, he understood Lord Blackwood’s concern, truly he did, but they had now passed the point where they could worry for the lives of three individuals, even those as important and loved as Jon, and Lord Royce, and Lord Piper. 

“We still must move our men South, we must protect our Southern borders from hordes of Dothraki screamers and the death and destruction they will bring to our people.” Brynden said, softly but intently. 

“My Lord Hand, I understand what you are saying, I understand that it is important to defend our people, but are you really suggesting we throw our ambassadors to the wolves?” 

“It is not the wolves which are the problem, Lady Mormont, but the dragons.” Brynden allowed himself the hint of a smirk, one he saw mirrored on Willas’ face across the Council Table. 

“I agree with Lord Brynden, our people should take precedence. Our duty is to protect them from harm, for what other reason would the gods have fashioned us?” 

Brynden traced Riverrun on the map, he dreaded the thought of his homeland turning into a battlefield once more, not when it was only just starting to heal from Sansa’s campaign and the War of the Five Kings; but it was inevitable. 

The Riverlands had always been the battlefield of Westeros, and they likely always would be, and it hurt. His people would always be the ones to suffer, and they needed to ensure that as few as possible were casualties of the war the Dragon Queen had brought to their shores. 

“We need to make sure that the citizens of the Riverlands don’t suffer as the Dragon Queen sends her rampaging hordes across the lands,” Brynden said softly, “My nephew is very concerned that they will be used simply as a reward for the Dothraki.”

The few other Riverlords that made up Sansa’s court all nodded in agreement, they had only just begun to rebuild and the thought that their holdings and people would be destroyed again was not a nice one.

“What does Lord Edmure suggest?” Lord Blackwood asked with a startling intensity.

“Obviously we should bring them into our keeps.” Lord Bracken rolled his eyes, “I mean, really Tytos, it is obvious.” 

There were a few murmurs of agreement to Lord Bracken’s words, just as there were a number of exchanged eyerolls that even in the middle of a war council the Bracken/Blackwood feud would still rear its head. At least there was some form of consistency still in the world, Brynden supposed. 

“Lord Bracken is right,” Brynden announced, “Lord Tully asks you to bring your smallfolk inside your keeps, defend your cities and castles from the encroaching Dothraki. Don’t let them be the victims of murderers and slavers and rapists.”

“And what does the Queen think of this? Why is she not here?” Lord Blackwood said, with what would have been a pout on the face of someone who was not a battle hardened lord. 

“Queen Sansa is currently indisposed,” Lady Mormont scoffed, “Which you would know if you paid attention.”

“The Tyrells have requested a formal meeting with Her Grace to finalise the terms of her betrothal with Lord Loras.” Brynden explained, “Princess Arya has accompanied her to the meeting, and I know that part of the discussion will revolve around supplies as part of the Tyrell’s end of the deal.”

“That is all well and good I suppose,” Lord Umber harrumphed, “But surely a war is more important than a marriage negotiation.” 

“When the marriage negotiation will aid us with a war then it is important. Gods, Umber, you don’t have to display your impatience to the whole court.” Lady Mormont said with a dismissive shake of her head. 

Umber let out a roar of rage and moved to throw the table; and as it hit the floor it was the last straw, the whole room erupted into chaos. 

Really, they were worse than Jon and Theon when they got in an argument, or Arya and Sansa when they decided annoying one another was more fun than working together. Brynden definitely envied Sansa at the moment, she was likely having tea with Willas and Margaery as they civilly discussed the aid the Tyrells would provide to the Winter Kingdoms in the war against the Dragon Queen in return for putting a crown on Loras’ head. 

He would much rather be there with them, instead of fighting to calm down the fighting, bullheaded lords. 

There were very few times when Brynden regretted taking up Sansa’s offer of Hand of the Queen, but the thought of calming down Lord Umber as he raised a chair above his head to slam it into Lord Bracken definitely made him start to regret agreeing.

* * *

Brynden did not particularly want to leave again, to depart for the battlefield once more and leave his family. But he had to, he was in charge of leading the armies in Sansa's stead. 

He just wished he didn't have to leave everyone behind again. 

“You should frown less.” Willas said softly, tracing his finger around Brynden’s lips. “You are starting to get lines.”

“Starting? Oh no, I have had these ones for years. They started when I met Oberyn.” Brynden cupped his hand around Willas’, pressing it against his own cheek.

The two exchanged soft glances, a sweet tenderness in their gaze, one in which was still exciting to not have to hide. 

“Well you should still frown less.” Willas said with a stubborn set to his mouth, “You don’t want to exacerbate the lines.”

Brynden smiled at his sweet lover, “I am old, my dear one, with many nieces and nephews to worry about, I am going to frown and get lines and lose the last of the colour in my hair.”

“You aren’t old. You are just... experienced.” Willas said with a wink, and Brynden could not help but laugh. 

“I suppose that’s one way to put it.” Brynden grinned, he leaned forwards so his face was almost touching Willas’, “But you know that my ‘experience’ means I cannot keep up with you as much as a younger model might.” 

Willas trailed his fingers down Brynden’s chest, “You might not have the stamina, but you do have the skill.” 

Brynden batted away his lover’s fingers, “You flatter me. We all know the one with the true skill is Oberyn.”

“Well yes,” Willas grinned, “But then, Oberyn has had many, many partners to practice on. You are good though, when you don’t compare yourself to Oberyn.” 

One of the problems with speaking to and sleeping with a man as shrewd as Willas, was that Brynden often did not know whether he had been insulted or complimented, or whether it was a mix of the two. 

“It sounds like you’re asking for trouble to me.” Brynden growled playfully, 

“Me?” Willas pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense, “Asking for trouble? Would I do such a thing?” 

Brynden pressed a flurry kiss to Willas’ lips, “Yes,” He said between each kiss, “You would. Because you, Willas Tyrell, are a tease, and a menace.”

Willas giggled and pulled Brynden down on top of him, and together, just for a moment, they were able to forget the looming war and their imminent separation.


	34. Sansa

It did not get any easier, Sansa had found, to send men off to war and know that not all of them would be returning. 

It was at times like this that she wished for Robb, or to be more like Arya, to be able to accompany the men herself, to fight at their side and be able to support them from the front line. 

But that was not her. Nor was it realistic, such a dream. She was needed in the North, needed to ensure that the supply chains stayed open, that their alliances held, that her smallfolk were safe. 

Those were the reasons she was chosen to rule, and she would not make the lords regret their decision to crown her. 

Arya had not seen the ceremony before, she had been in the Eyrie when the armies left for the Wall, and had been part of the column with Brienne when they had left to take Kings Landing. She had never stood on the dais by Sansa’s side, had never had to look the lords in the eye, never had to gaze upon the lines of men wearing Stark colours and know that too few would return. 

Sansa had done her best to ensure that Arya was prepared, but no story or description could truly prepare anyone for the look in a man’s eyes as he tried to take in what might very well be the last glimpse of his home and family. 

The crown upon Sansa’s head felt heavier than usual with the weight of her duty; her mother’s pearls around her neck weighed her down with the promises she had made to family; and the thick dark blue brocade of her gown, the one embroidered and woven with silver fangs and feathers and fins, served as a reminder of the honour of her kingdoms and the bloodlines which supported her. 

Arya had chosen to wear a dress for this occasion as well, even though Sansa had told her she didn’t have to. She had said that she wanted to, that she did not want to look like a squire or Arya Underfoot, she wanted to look like the Princess of the Winter Kingdoms that she was. 

Sansa was proud of Arya for that. She was proud of her little sister putting duty and propriety above her own comfort, and yet sad that her sister had needed to learn it so soon and in such a harsh manner. 

She had made sure that Arya’s dress still suited her younger sister, that it had split skirts and was made of a more practical slate grey velvet than the heavy brocade of her own. It was the sort of dress that their mother would have wept to see Arya in, for she did not just look beautiful, she looked happy as well and more secure in herself in a way she had not when their mother was still alive. 

Sansa supposed stopping an assassin did wonders for one’s self esteem. 

Their uncle wore his black armour; his own sigil and the Hand’s symbol on the red and blue surcoat he had on over the top and his cloak; and under his arm was tucked his helm, a plume of red and blue feathers leaping from the top, like a trout leaping from the water. He looked like the knight from a song, the winner of some tourney kneeling to present a wreath of flowers to his lady love. 

Only, Sansa was his queen and niece, not his lady love; and the object in his hands was a sword and not a wreath of flowers. 

“Your Grace,” His voice was thick with emotion and yet solemn with ceremony, “I offer you this sword to bless, to allow it to guard your realms and your people.”

Sansa swallowed back the grief that wanted to burst free and tilted her chin up minutely, “May your sword be swift and your blade be sharp, may the gods guide your blows as you defend these lands and their people.” 

She gently laid a hand upon the blade and with the other removed the embroidered ribbon she had prepared, “I offer you this token, so that all may know you fight in my name, to uphold my justice and protect my people.”

At a slight nod from her uncle she tied it around the pommel, the red and blue and silver and white fluttering in the wind, a symbol of the kingdoms which had joined together to buck the tyranny of the Lannisters.

“It will be my greatest honour, Your Grace.” Uncle Brynden took his sword back and bowed to her, a sad sort of finality in his eyes. 

They both knew that the chance of him returning was slim, for all that they had tried to hide it from the others, they knew that the Dragon Queen’s generals and that Daenerys Targaryen herself would all aim to take him down. It was evident enough from the letters that Tyrion Lannister had sent, from the short reports that Bran was able to give them, that they thought Sansa was a puppet queen, one controlled by Brynden. 

Hopefully that underestimation would help them gain a victory over the arrogant invaders, hopefully it would grant them an advantage of sorts over the Dragon Queen and her lackeys. 

Arya looked between them both, and something in her expression shattered. She rushed forwards and knocked into Brynden with a tear-filled face. 

“I don’t want you to go, uncle. I don’t want to lose you too.” Arya sobbed into his breastplate, “Please.” 

Her voice was quiet enough that it did not carry far, only to the other lords who had come to seek Sansa’s blessing. None of them would begrudge a child who had lost so much her fears over potentially losing another family member, and Lady Mormont almost looked approving of Arya’s outburst. 

Not that Sansa would have let Arya’s perfectly natural emotions cause them any trouble, not that she would have let any of the lords look down upon her sister for acting her true age.

“I will do all I can to come back to you, sweetling.” Uncle Brynden said softly, “Both of you.” 

He could not promise to return, could not make the vow that they all wished to hear, not when everything was still so uncertain. 

Sansa hesitated for a moment, desperately longing to join the embrace, but she set her shoulders and turned away from her uncle and sister and back to the duty that awaited her. She would have time enough to cry later. 

* * *

The sharp taste of lemons rested upon Sansa’s tongue as Margaery twirled a piece of her hair around her fingers. They lay upon the sofa in Sansa’s chambers, their legs intertwined through their skirts, and Sansa’s head propped upon Margaery’s reclined chest. 

“I do not know if I could do as you do, my sweet.” Margaery confessed softly, “I always wished to be queen, but I do not know if i could make the decision to send men off to war, or whether I would be able to sacrifice the life of a loved one to allow my people the chance of freedom.” 

Sansa twisted so she could look up into Margaery’s doe eyes, “I never believed I would be able to do it either. When father first told me that I was betrothed to Joffrey I thought it would be like the songs, that we would live happily ever after in a castle filled with grand balls and children and pretty things, I never thought about the work of running a kingdom, even though looking back my parents had been teaching me the role since I was but a babe.”

“I didn’t have quite so rosy a picture, but then I was not eleven when my family betrothed and married me to Renly. I wanted to be queen for the pretty dresses, and because my grandmother had told me that I did from when I was a babe.”

It was strange to look back on the dream Sansa had held but a few short years ago, and how quickly they had been destroyed and changed by the experiences she had gone through. 

“You were sweet when you were younger, a sweet child even under the glare of Cersei and the tempestuous moods of Joffrey. I wanted to help you, to take you away from them, it is one of the reasons we suggested Willas to you as a match.” A delicate, conniving smirk crossed Margaery’s face, “Of course, I much prefer that you are not married to Willas, I feel that Loras will be much more understanding if I was to slip into your chamber, just as I was for he and Renly.” 

Sansa fought the blush that wanted to rise to her cheeks, she didn't want to admit just how much Margaery’s gentle teasing pleased her. 

“I was wondering, actually, whether you would know someone who could become my agricultural advisor after the war?” Sansa said, “They would need to be clever, have a good knowledge of agricultural processes in places such as the Reach, and be known to the future Prince Consort so he is not entirely alone when he first arrives. Being beautiful with long chestnut hair and large brown eyes would certainly be a bonus as well.”

Margaery’s eyes lit up with laughter, and a sort of sweet smugness. 

“Wherever would we find someone like that?” She breathed, her fingers trailing down Sansa’s face, “Perhaps you mean Garlan? Or the lovely Leonette? Or is it someone closer to you?” 

“I was thinking much closer than you brother or good-sister.” Sansa breathed back, “I was thinking of someone who at this very moment is sat in my chambers with my head upon her shoulder.”

“You really mean it? You would give me a say in how your kingdom is run?” 

“The New Gift and the Gift need replanting, the land is fertile but unused and now that we have a treaty with the Free Folk it is time it was planted again.” Sansa smiled up at Margaery, “I must confess that I know little of the needs of the land, however and would ask for the aid of someone with more experience. What do you say? Would you stay i the North and help me? ”

Margaery pressed a soft kiss to Sansa’s keep and smiled at her, “I think that sounds delightful, my sweet queen.”

This time Sansa could not hide the delighted blush that spread to her cheeks. 

* * *

“I will not have the Dragon Queen set one single foot in the North.” Sansa said with a damning finality, “Not when to do so will mean that she will have crossed the Riverlands, burning all in her path and destroying one of the lands under my protection.”

“What- What do you mean Sansa?” Arya’s voice was more hesitant than Sansa had ever heard it before, “What are you planning?”

Sansa turned and smiled sadly at her little sister, the sun to her moon, her reflection and (shockingly) one of her best friends.

“If Uncle Brynden fails, if the Dragon Queen’s armies win and our uncle and men die, then I shall travel South to the Riverlands. I shall travel to where Torrhen knelt, and there I too shall kneel.” 

“So you’re planning to kneel even after sentencing Jon to die?” Arya asked dully, “You sentenced him to death for no real reason?”

“No,” Sansa rushed to reassure her sister, “No, I have to hope that Jon will survive no matter what, our brother is wiley Arya, if anyone could manage to find their way out of an execution it would be Jon. But I have to be realistic, if I surrendered the North to save one person, one person who is not even the heir to the throne, I would be overthrown by the lords. It’s the same choice Robb had to make, and one I hope you never have to make yourself.”

There was the slightest possible softening of Arya’s features, one that Sansa would not have noticed if she hadn’t been searching Arya’s face desperately.

“It still feels unfair. I don’t want to lose Jon, I don’t even really want to lose Theon even though he’s a prick.” 

Sansa moved to pull her unresisting sister into her arms, “I know. I don’t want to lose them either. It feels like too great a price to pay for a crown I might not even get to keep anyway.”

Arya did not wrap her arms around Sansa, but she did relax into her hold, she did curl into Sansa’s chest. 

“It doesn’t seem fair.” Arya whined, “We won, we avenged father and mother and Robb, we saved the world and we were supposed to live in peace. We weren’t supposed to have to lose another brother.” 

“I know.” Sansa stroked Arya’s hair, “I know.” 

She just held her little sister close for a moment, unwilling to let the only member of her family still by her side go. Eventually though she released her. She had to ensure that Arya knew Sansa’s plans, seeing as Arya would be the one to carry them out. 

“Arya, if I die then you will be Rickon’s Regent until he is of age to take the throne. I leave it to your discretion as to whether you continue to fight or whether you bend the knee or flee, just know that I will be proud whatever choice you make.” Sansa kept her voice brusque to avoid letting tears fall, “Under no circumstances do I want you to keep fighting purely to avenge me, you decision must coincide with the will of the people.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, to protest or complain or reassure, but Sansa held up her hand to stop that.

“Just - just let me finish. If I do manage to succeed in bending the knee, if the Dragon Queen takes our surrender then I will do whatever I can to ensure you and Bran and Rickon are kept safe and Winterfell remains in Stark hands. I will attempt to keep your betrothal to Robin, for I fear that the Dragon Queen will otherwise marry you to one of her lackeys as punishment, and at the very least it will keep you from being wed to a Lannister cousin.” Sansa took a deep breath, “If those conditions mean I must marry a Lannister myself, well, I can promise you that no child will come from such a union. No one with Lannister blood will ever hold a claim to the North or Winterfell.”

The tears finally fell as Sansa choked out her last few words, it was a terrible thing to contemplate, but she could not allow herself to be used the way Tywin Lannister had wanted her to be used. She would make herself barren or kill herself before anyone with blood from the family which had destroyed hers was given claim to her home.

Arya started to cry too then, and clung to her like she was Rickon’s age. 

“I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to go.” She cried into Sansa’s chest, and Sansa found herself stroking her hair like their mother used to do.

“I don’t want to go either, Arya, I want to stay here with all of you around me and not have to worry about a tyrant with three dragons, but I have to be realistic. If Uncle Brynden and our armies fall then I won’t have a choice.”


	35. Jon

Viserion was surprisingly sweet, if one ignored his sulphurous breath and the blood staining on his teeth. He was gentler than his brothers, and some of his mannerisms reminded Jon of Ghost.

His giant head nudged at Jon’s arm, seeking pets and treats, and Jon felt his lips turn up into one of the few true smiles he had worn since arriving on Dragonstone.

Viserion would never be a replacement for Ghost, but he was still sweet to be around.

The knowledge that his bond with Jon meant that the Dragon Queen could not use him was definitely a bonus as well. One less dragon that might be able to decimate the armies of his people, one less dragon that would burn their homes.

And if Jon could somehow make Viserion turn against Drogon and Daenerys, well, that would be the ideal scenario for them all.

Daenerys had no clue why he spent so much time with Viserion, she thought it was him accepting his Targaryen heritage and accepting his future place as her consort. 

No one bothered to disabuse her of that idea, for a content Daenerys would make their escape far easier.

Jon made sure he was always obvious, that he was in sight of Daenerys or her generals or advisors at all times, an endeavour that Aegon and Lords Piper and Royce aided him in. Their obvious presence masked the hours that Ser Davos and Theon spent on the little boat, preparing it for their escape and ensuring it was seaworthy. 

They had all been filching appropriate foodstuffs from their meals, and Aegon had even a managed to steal a couple of waterskins from some of the Dothraki. These supplies had gone into the boat as well, ensuring that if they needed to escape at a quick notice then they would not do it completely unprepared. 

After all, Jon reflected as he stroked Viserion’s snout, Daenerys’ moods could be as mercurial as the seas and they were never completely safe. 

—

A hatred filled Jon’s veins every time he gazed upon the black throne that Daenerys Targaryen had claimed for her own. It was a hatred for the throne, and the woman upon it, and all the people who had chosen to support her. 

She liked to have them all watch her attempt to rule her people and plan her wars, horrifically overconfident in her own abilities, an overconfidence that truly had not been earned if Jon’s observations meant anything. 

It pained him to see her talk over her advisors, pained him to see her discount just how important food and rest were to any army. They were the sort of mistakes that Jon himself had been taught to avoid from a young age, ones that his father, and Jeor Mormont, and Brynden, and even Tormund, had all worked to ensure he never made. Lessons that Daenerys had either never been taught, or had been taught too late so she had not taken them in properly. 

It was sad, in a way, that Daenerys had never been trained for what she believed to be her ‘destiny’, but Jon would have had more sympathy for her if she made attempts to correct those holes in her education rather than believing that she knew best. 

“Your Grace,” The Imp bowed knelt before the throne, “We have had no response from any of the false kings or queens of Westeros. They have all rejected our offer of peace.”

Daenerys’ brow creased with disappointment, “All of them? Even the Stark and Greyjoy girls? None of them have bent the knee to save their hostages and brothers?” 

A stab of pain entered Jon’s heart, he knew that Sansa would refuse to bend the knee to the Dragon Queen, he himself had told her to refuse, and yet to hear that he had been abandoned still hurt. He could hardly imagine how Theon was feeling, not when he knew that Theon still ached over his father preparing for war while he was still a hostage, not when Asha had promised Theon she would protect him as much as she could. 

“Well-” Tyrion Lannister glanced over at them, “We did receive a missive from Asha Greyjoy, but as it was only a crude drawing with threats scrawled around it, we did not think it particularly relevant.” 

Theon huffed out what could have been a quiet laugh under any other circumstances. It _was_ the sort of thing that Asha would have sent, if Jon’s impression of her was correct, in fact, he was surprised that there was not a similar missive from Arya as well. 

“I see.” The Dragon Queen rose from her throne and descended until she stood before them. Her hand reached out to caress first Jon’s cheek, and then Aegon’s, “As much as it pains me to do this, I must carry out my promises. You may have this night, to settle your souls with whatever god you might believe in,”

She looked genuinely mournful, as though she had no choice other than to kill them in the most brutal way possible. 

Bile rose in Jon’s throat, and it was all he could do to keep from spitting it at her feet. If he had a blade upon him he would have gladly run it through her heart at that moment, and hang the consequences, but he did not. 

A dragon roared outside, its anger reverberating through the hall.

Daenerys stepped away from them; obviously more interested in the anger of her child than the men she had just condemned to death; and Jon did not realise he had moved to follow her, to throttle her until her lips turned as blue as Euron’s, until Ser Davos caught his eye and shook his head warningly.

Abashed, Jon looked between the others, each of them with the same question in their eyes, and the same answer as well. 

They nodded, resolved to their course of action. As soon as the sun had set they would make their escape, and hope it gave them enough head start away from Dragonstone that they might be successful. 

—

“And where do you think you’re going, Little Theon?” 

The sound of Euron Greyjoy’s voice made them freeze, it was a sound that no one would wish to hear at the best of times, and during an escape attempt was certainly not that.

“For a walk, it is not forbidden for us to wander the island, is it uncle?” Theon turned and spoke without a quiver to his voice. His skin may have paled from fear but that was the only sign. 

“No, I suppose not, Little Theon.” Euron said slowly, as he continued to walk towards them. “It's not like you can escape your death tomorrow.” 

That was precisely what they were going to do, but they merely stood still and let Euron continue towards them until they could see the terrible blue of his eye. 

“I can save you, Little Theon, and the Pup too.” Euron leered, “I can save you from the dragon fire, from the agonies of feeling your flesh melt from your bones and your fat boil.”

“Oh?” Jon said with deliberate flippancy, “And how would you do that?”

Euron’s lips peeled back from his teeth as he smiled predatorily, “Give yourself over to me, become my pets, and I promise no harm will come to you from the Dragon Queen.”

His careful wording was obvious, and it sent a shiver of dread down Jon’s spine. Euron would not let Daenerys harm them, but he made no promises about himself

“No thank you.” Theon said, “I think we would rather take our chances with the dragons than with you.”

“You are going to regret that.” Euron snarled, “But seeing as you are my blood I shall instead offer you the mercy of killing you myself, just as I killed your father.” 

“You are too kind.” Theon sneered back, “But I really don’t think that is enough to make up for all the name days you missed.” 

“You are a worthless brat Little Theon. Must be your whore of a mother’s blood, for my brothers and I were never as defiant or pathetic as you and your bitch of a sister.”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that.” Theon;s voice was dangerously quiet, his eyes flashing with an anger that had even Jon wanting to step away from it.

“And who are you, _boy,_ to think you can pass judgment on me? I am Euron Greyjoy, I am the Storm. When men see my sails they pray, from Ibben to Asshai. And you, you are a weakling, a cockless wretch hiding behind your snivelling sister.” Euron spat, his blue eye glowing with a fanatic intensity. 

“My name is Theon Greyjoy. I am the son of Alannys Harlaw, the brother of Queen Asha and Queen Sansa, and with the power they have gifted me I sentence you to die Uncle, for the crime of kinslaying and treason.” 

Euron laughed. It was a cold laugh, a cruel laugh, one which sent shivers down Jon’s spine.

He unhooked his axe from his belt and started to swing it in lazy circles as he advanced upon Theon. 

All signs of tremors had left Theon, his hand was clenched around the hilt of his sword in the grip that Jon knew meant he was preparing to swing it with a deceptive strength. 

It was a relief to see so much of the old Theon back, the one who Jon had trained with so much in an attempt to heal from his treatment at Ramsay Snow’s hands, the one who was almost as cocky and confident on the training ground as he had been before they all left Winterfell the first time.

Sword clashed against axe, with a clang that rang through the dark stone hall, a clang that jolted Jon out of his thoughts and made him draw Longclaw as well. Side by side he and Theon fought, a dance of blades, protecting each other and attacking Euron in turn. 

They might have had youth and numbers on their side, but Euron had experience and whatever black magics he used that coloured his lips blue and radiated from him like an aura. 

He waited until Theon was the one defending, and ducked beneath Longclaw, only to kick Jon in the back with a terrifying strength that knocked him to the floor. Jon’s head whacked against the stone, and his vision went black for a few moments. 

When he came to Theon too was on the floor, Euron straddling him and his sword just out of reach of his scrabbling hands. 

“See Little Theon, you are weak. You should accept your place here, beneath me, a scared little pet.” Euron leaned forwards and licked the shell of Theon’s ear.

Jon could not do anything, his limbs were numb, the shock of the blow against his back having deadened them. Not for the first time he regretted not having his armour there to protect him, but they could not have brought it to a diplomatic meeting, not when a full set could have been taken for a sign of war. 

He could only watch as Theon seemed to find some hidden reservoir of strength, as he gritted his teeth and bucked his body so Euron lost his hold on him. 

“I am no one's pet.” Theon stumbled to his feet and stood defiant against his mad uncle. 

His limbs were shaking and a thin line of blood trickled down his face, but he looked like the Theon Greyjoy who had stood by Robb’s side, the Theon Greyjoy who had been a mighty warrior, the Theon Greyjoy who had not yet been tortured to near insanity. 

He bent down and picked up the dagger from the floor and stumbled towards Euron. 

“I am no one’s pet, I am Theon Greyjoy, son of Alannys Harlaw, and I am stronger than you.” 

Somehow the sight of Theon filled Jon’s own body with a new burst of strength, he leveraged himself off the floor, forcing his deadened limbs to do his bidding. 

“Ahh, so the pet has reclaimed his bite? How cute.” Euron leered, “I wonder how long it will last when you are chained to my bed.” 

“Theon is not your pet.” Jon rasped, “He is his own man.” 

“And the pup as well? How pretty the pair of you are.” 

Jon took up Longclaw again, his muscles trembling beneath the familiar weight of it. He forced himself forwards, he would not leave Theon to face the threat of his uncle alone, not while he still had breath in his body. 

He lunged at the Ironborn, his sword clanging against Euron’s axe with a furious ringing noise. Jon gritted his teeth at the reverberations, at the way Euron pushed back against him. 

His eye caught Theon’s and something wordless passed between them, an understanding of what they must do. 

Jon used what felt like the last vestiges of his strength to force Euron back, to push him into the wall and pin him there. 

“Euron of House Greyjoy, in the name of Queen Asha and the Drowned God I sentence you to die.” Theon said softly. 

He raised his dagger and held it before Euron’s glinting blue eye. The first hint of fear started to appear in his eyes and he opened his mouth to start pleading, but it was too late. 

With a swift movement Theon plunged his blade into Euron’s eye, the blade going straight through and into his brain. A splatter of blood and gore erupted as Theon wrenched his dagger out, only to plunge it in again, and again, until Euron’s final breath left his lips with a rattle. 

They stood there, over the cooling corpse, adrenaline still in their veins and gore splattered across their faces. 

But there was little time to revel in their victory, not when someone would soon notice Euron’s disappearance, not when at any moment someone might walk in and scupper their escape.

They ran, the halls rushing around them until they were out in the open air and they could almost taste their freedom. 

\--

The boat was small, but it was not so small that they could not fit comfortably. There were seats enough for the six of them, and the close contact was in fact welcome in the crisp night air. 

Jon pressed in close to Theon, the adrenaline of their fight with Euron still pumping through his veins. There were droplets of blood splattered on his cheek, he could feel them drying, itchy and unpleasant but he made no move to wipe them off. 

Theon let out a low groan as Jon pressed into his side, but it was not the groan of sore muscles, no, it was a groan of pain and his hand was pressed into his side.

“Theon? What’s wrong?” Jon could hear the urgency in his voice, but he could not lose another brother, could not lose him when they were so close to freedom. 

His brother did not speak, instead he showed Jon the source of his gasp, one which filled Jon with horror and despair. 

Theon’s hand lifted from his side, blood dripping from his fingers. His horrified eyes met Jon’s own and slowly his face started to pale.

His gaze shifted, both looking at Jon and looking through him, “Robb?” 

Jon rushed forwards as Theon collapsed, the blood from his side now an obvious dark patch on his clothing. 

“Robb?” Theon asked once more and then his eyes closed, as though he hadn’t even the energy to keep them open any longer. 

Jon could only sit there, his brother in his arms as Dragonstone got smaller and smaller behind them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> >:)


	36. Brynden

Brynden had never thought he would be pleased to see the Twins. The two lopsided keeps on either side of the river, joined by a great stone bridge, the stones still slightly scarred from the attack which Brynden himself had led.

No longer did the symbol of the odious Freys hang above the gates and ramparts though. No longer did the blue and silver banners mock him, instead there were banners of orange and gold. An inverted sun surrounded by a viper. 

The sigil which had been chosen by Oberyn’s daughters was a welcome sight indeed, not least for the warm welcome he was sure to receive inside.

“Lord Hand.” Obara waited for him atop the steps, her bright clothing a beacon against the stones. “Welcome to the Twins.”

Brynden dismounted his horse and greeted her as he would a warrior he admired. It was a greeting he knew she would prefer over the courtly bow he would gift to any other lady.

“Lady Obara, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He clasped her arm in his and pulled her into a one armed hug.

“We have room enough for some of your men, my lord, but I am afraid not every man will fit into the halls.”

“That does not matter, for we shall not be staying too long. A single night perhaps, before we push on to where our armies are converging.” 

The lady smiled, a smile that Brynden would have flinched away from if he was a lesser man.

“There is a letter here as well for you. Father slipped it in amongst the bundle of letters he and Ellaria often send us, alongside the packages of spices that are so very necessary to make your food more edible.” 

Perhaps Brynden should have been offended by the dismissal of his homeland’s food, but he had eaten Dornish food before and could understand why they found it bland. Especially when a single bite of the Dornish food had made tears stream from Brynden’s eyes with how heavily spiced it had been. 

“Thank you for holding onto it for me.” He said, instead of rising to her taunt, “Would it be possible to read it inside? Only it seems likely to rain and I fear for your delicate Dornish constitution.” 

He couldn’t help the last line, not when her wicked grin reminded him so much of Oberyn at his most irritating.

“Of course, my lord.” Obara’s smile never wavered as she stepped aside to allow him to enter. 

The Twins were as much changed on the inside as the outside, with bright brocade covers and vibrant silk hangings replacing the aged furnishings that the late Lord Frey had preferred.

It seemed that Oberyn had made sure his daughters were well set up and comfortable in their new home.

He was led to a small sitting room, and handed a scroll sealed with a blob of orange wax. 

_ ‘My Sweet Brynden, _

_ You should receive this letter unopened, however I did leave it in the possession of my daughters so perhaps that was too much to ask. _

_ (Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, if you are reading this know that I am both very disappointed in you and so proud. You are all very obviously my daughters.) _

_ Brynden, by the time you receive this letter I shall be in Kings Landing. I was summoned by King Stannis, to bring some of the plans that were used to fend off the many Targaryen attempts to invade Dorne.  _

_ I know that you will be passing the Twins, for you will undoubtedly be travelling to protect your family and your people. There will be reinforcements from other parts of Westeros joining you, just as the kingdoms joined together before to repel a Targaryen invader. _

_ Please, my love, try not to kill the leader of the other forces. I know he is irritating, but he does occasionally have a good tactical mind.  _

_ (It is a favour to the king as well, to have Ser Jaime away from him. I do believe Stannis shall crack his teeth if he has to deal with the Kingslayer any more than he usually does.) _

_ Hopefully I shall see you soon, if the Seven smile down on us all.  _

_ Stay safe in the battles to come. _

_ Oberyn.’ _

Brynden looked up and met the smirking eyes of Obara, from her expression alone he could tell that she had opened the missive from her father.

“Do you require any other aid, my Sweet Lord Hand?” She said, with a tone that was all Oberyn.

“A hot meal would not go amiss, Lady Obara.” Brynden said, avoiding her taunt with the patience born of years of practice with Oberyn, Hoster, and Catelyn.

“Of course.” Obara bowed, “Nymeria has chosen to lead our men to join you, while Tyene will return to Queen Sansa’s side with your blessing.”

A weight that Brynden did not even realise he was carrying suddenly lifted from his shoulders. He had been worried about Sansa, and whether she might choose to do something stupid without someone with more life experience looking over her shoulder and tempering some of her worst impulses, but Tyene had proven herself to be apt at keeping Sansa out of trouble.

“She more than has my blessing.” He sighed, “She has my thanks as well, for being such an excellent protector for the Queen. I know that Sansa has missed her presence, as has Arya, and they will be pleased to see her again.”

Obara grinned, “We thought you would say as such. Which is why she left three days ago, if the Seven are with her then she should arrive in Winterfell by tomorrow.”

Brynden felt like sighing and shaking his head, of course she was. It was such an Oberyn move, such an Ellaria move, that he really should have anticipated it. 

* * *

Tully banners flew the highest in the camp, rippling in the gentle wind and making it seem as though the trout upon them was leaping in and out of the air.

Sansa’s Direwolf would soon join them, but for now Brynden just enjoyed the sight of his own family sigil. The sign that his nephew and the lords that he knew so well were already there.

“Uncle!” 

Brynden grinned to see Edmure, his nephew was finally fully recovered from his captivity, the hollows on his cheeks filled out again, and his bearing had regained the sort of arrogant confidence that was the prerogative of the nobility.

“Edmure.” Brynden held out his arms in invitation, “Come here, I want to see for myself how well you are.”

He pulled Edmure into his arms and contented himself with feeling for himself that his nephew was safe and well. 

“I am fine, uncle!” Edmure had a touch of exasperation to his tone, “Merely a little tired now that Robb is teething.”

“Do you not have a nurse stay up with him? Do you truly stay up with him yourself and then complete your duties as well?” Brynden demanded.

“No, why would I do that?” The exasperation only increased, “If I did that then I might miss out on precious moments with my son.”

His soft hearted nephew, of course that would be how he saw having a nurse. He would not see it as giving him the chance to rest and complete his other duties, but instead as losing time with his son.

“I see.” Brynden leaned back so he could look into Edmure’s eyes, “As long as you’re happy, I suppose that’s all that truly matters.”

Edmure burrowed back into his hold, as though he was all of six years old again instead of his true twenty six years.

“I am, I promise.”

“Well isn’t this touching.” A loud drawl caused them to separate, and Brynden turned to see a head of blond hair that he hated. 

“Ser Jaime.” Brynden could hear the disdain that still lingered in his voice.

The Kingslayer did not seem to care though, he let out an arrogant laugh instead and grinned lazily.

“I believe my title is ‘lord’ now, a sentiment that would have my father either spinning in his grave or dancing in it.” Lannister shrugged, “Personally I hope for the first, it brings me great pleasure to imagine him unhappy with all my life choices. Especially as he wanted me to take up the mantle all his life.”

It brought Brynden no small amount of pleasure to know that Tywin Lannister was remembered with hatred or disdain by everyone who had known him. 

“Tell me though, Lord Brynden, do you have any news of my son?” Ser Jaime leaned forwards eagerly, “Do you have any news for me on how Tommen is doing?”

Quite against his will a smile touched his lips, Ser Jaime’s eagerness to hear about his son was adorable in the same way that a puppy was sweet to behold. He was almost sure that if he looked behind the Lord of Casterly Rock there would be a tail eagerly wagging.

Just as amusing was the knowledge that being compared to a dog would cause great offence to any Lannister, especially one as prideful as Ser Jaime.

“Lord Tommen is a sweet child, he has charmed everyone who has met him.” Brynden replied, “He has become great friends with Prince Bran, and is utterly enamoured with his pet kitten.”

“He has another kitten?” Ser Jaime perked up, “Does this one also have another adorably sweet name?”

“Lady Fluff. He’s named his kitten Lady Fluff.” A slight laugh escaped him, “It is a regular occurrence to see Lady Fluff perched upon Lord Tommen’s shoulder, or napping atop of Summer’s head.”

Ser Jaime’s eyes softened, “Aue, that sounds about right for Tommen. I still don’t understand how he’s like that, not when he came from Cersei and I.”

That, Brynden supposed, was one of the true mysteries of the world. 

* * *

Brynden liked to spend time among the men, liked to spend time near the men who would be at his back and fighting by his side, no matter the colours they might wear upon their breast.

There was still a lingering dislike of the Lannister men, one that would likely remain for quite some time. It was a dislike that was completely understandable, and yet one which would keep them from fighting effectively.

The lingering sentiments from Robb’s campaign poisoned so many of the interactions of the men, as did the campaign Sansa had led against the Lannisters. And yet if they wanted any chance against the Dragon Queen and her Dothraki they needed the better equipped and better supplied Lannister army.

Brynden chose to join a group of Lannister soldiers by one of the many cookfires. He was joined by a few of his top captains, and knew that across the camp the other lords were doing similar things.

“Lord Tully.” One of the men eagerly greeted him, although perhaps man was the wrong word to describe a boy with baby fat still clinging to his cheeks.

“Hush Pod,” A man with hair nearly the same red as Brynden’s nieces and nephews elbowed the lad. “Lord Tully doesn’t want to hear you nattering on at him.”

Brynden smiled gently, the same sort of smile he used on Arya when she was talking about her lessons with Brienne, or Rickon when he was enthusing about a game he had played with Tommen or Munda.

“I don’t mind, Pod is it?” The boy nodded his head quickly, “Pod here reminds me a little of my nieces and nephews.”

The lad gasped, “Queen Sansa, ser? You think I’m like Queen Sansa? She was kind to me once, called me brave.”

“You never said you knew the Red Wolf Queen!” The same man as before exclaimed, “You little liar!”

“I’m not lying, Ed!” Pod said with indignation, “I knew Queen Sansa when she was in the Red Keep. I squired for Tyrion Lannister for a time, before he was hurt in the Blackwater.”

Everyone around the fire spat at the mention of the Imp. It was easy to tell that there was no longer any love for Tywin Lannister’s youngest son in the Westerlands, not after he had helped an invading Queen ransack Casterly Rock and land on the shores of Westeros in the first place.

“Sansa has always been kind.” Brynden agreed, “And she rarely tells untruths. If she told you that you were brave, then you are most certainly brave.”

The boy lit up, and straightened in place. His chest puffed out and he looked so very proud, in the way that only a child could.

“I am Ser! I promise!”

The other men viewed the lad with fondness, whether it be fatherly or brotherly, or the sort of fondness kept for a particularly amusing pet. It was obvious that they all cared for Pod, and it warmed Brynden’s heart to see such a thing. 

He wanted to keep the lad away from the battlefield himself, away from the dragons and Dothraki. But he couldn’t. The lad was a squire, his place was by his knight master’s side, even if it took him into the thick of battle. 

A faint sound echoed through the air, drawing all their attention and instantly silencing conversation and merriment.

The noise sounded again and they had confirmation: it was a war horn. A war horn which rang across the field, a war horn with an unfamiliar tone. 

Brynden closed his eyes and sent a quick prayer to the gods, the Old and the New, as even more war horns sounded. 

The time for preparations was up, the Dragon Queen’s armies had arrived. 


	37. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhh, once again Jon is not in a good place at all this chapter.

There was blood on his hands. Theon’s blood.

No matter how hard he scrubbed at them he could still see the dark, sticky red that had coated them as they arrived in King's Landing. 

It followed him everywhere, followed him like Theon’s futile cries for Robb.

He hadn’t seen Theon since then, hadn’t been told whether he lived or died. 

All he knew was the blood and the fear and the terrible hope in Theon’s eyes as he thought he saw Robb.

“Come on, Jon.” A kind face appeared in the door of the chamber he had been assigned, “Your uncle would never forgive me if I let you rot up here.”

Jon looked up from his hands. He looked up from his blood stained palms. 

“Where are we going today?” His voice sounded dull, even to his ears, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Oberyn took a hold of his hand, encasing it in his own warm palm, “To see someone I think you have missed.”

His voice was so very warm, so very caring, and Jon had to blink away the wetness that wanted to form in his eyes. Oberyn sounded like Father used to, right down to the gentle look in his eyes.

He let himself be pulled to his feet, let himself be pulled out into the corridor. 

Oberyn’s hand never left his, pulling him along like he was a small child. Jon didn’t care though, not when he could still feel Theon’s blood on his other hand.

The halls of the Red Keep were emptier than the last time Jon had been there, most of the lords and ladies holed up in their own keeps in an attempt to stay safe from the Dragon Queen. Everyone knew she would be coming for the city, for the Iron Throne and Stannis Baratheon’s head. 

He soon lost track of where they were going, the maze of halls and stairways soon confusing his sense of direction. Oberyn seemed to know where he was going though, and although it might have been an elaborate murder plot or scheme to sacrifice him to the Dragon Queen, Jon did not think that was likely, not when it would upset Brynden. 

They finally stopped outside one of the entrances to a tower, or at least, that was where Jon thought they were. The wooden door was scuffed as though frequently used, and the bitter scent of herbs emerged from behind it.

He managed to raise an eyebrow in question to Oberyn, and received a quick grin in response. 

“I promise it is good news, and that you will like what awaits you behind the door, even if you pretend otherwise.” 

Well, that was not ominous at all. 

He pushed the door open, didn’t really have the chance not to when Oberyn was looking at him so expectantly, and froze when he saw who was stood in the centre of the room. 

_ Theon _ stood in the centre of the room, the hint of bandages poking out from beneath his shirt, there was a healthy flush upon his cheeks, and he even seemed to have put on a little weight. 

He appeared even healthier than he had before their captivity on Dragonstone, and when he caught sight of Jon it was as though his near mortal wound had never happened. 

“You know, Snow, I’m slightly disappointed that it wasn’t  _ your _ blade that got me.” Theon  _ fucking  _ Greyjoy said with a cocky smirk, “I thought I was fated to die upon a Stark blade, rather than my uncle’s.” 

Jon could only stare at him, before he said the first thing that popped into his head.

“You- You complete arse, Theon Greyjoy!” Jon shouted, as he burst into tears.

Theon’s face fell at the sight of his tears, and he gingerly moved to wrap Jon up in a hug.

“Hey, hey shh. I’m alright Jon, see?” His voice was as soft as he pitched it to soothe Rickon after a nightmare, “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you were so worried.”

“I thought you were dead! I thought you had died and it was my fault for missing something!”

Theon’s arms tightened, “Hey, you’re being an idiot there Snow. You wouldn't have killed me, that would have been my dick of an uncle. Besides, I didn’t know you cared so much.” 

Jon did not pull away from Theon’s hold, but he did lean back just enough that he could look him in the eyes and sniff. 

“I don’t. I just didn't want to have to explain to Sansa why you weren’t around.” He aimed for dignity, but he knew it was difficult to achieve when his eyes were red and puffy from crying.

Theon did not say anything about his eyes though, did not mock him for crying, he merely squeezed him a little tighter. 

“If you say so, Snow.”

* * *

If Jon was an unkind man he would say that Stannis Baratheon almost seemed to be thriving with a definite opponent to go up against. By all accounts he had settled in well to the position of King, enjoying the paperwork, negotiations, and council sessions required to rebuild the kingdoms over which he ruled. But reports had also said that he had seemed listless after the loss of his Red Witch, and it appeared that a just war had resparked his joy for life. 

If Jon was feeling particularly unkind he would say it reminded him a little of his father’s stories about King Robert. 

They all stood around a large map of Westeros, one dotted with the small sigils used to indicate allegiance and the power of those they represented. 

In Westeros itself the two largest concentrations were on almost opposite sides of the map, either concentrated in Kings Landing, or in the Riverlands. 

“We received notice that the last of the Winter Kingdom’s forces have arrived at their camp,” Ser Davos said, “They are led of course by Ser Brynden Tully, who has taken over complete control of Queen Sansa’s forces. Lord Lannister’s report contains a slightly whinging tone regarding this.” 

There were a few sly smirks at Ser Davos’ wry tone as he spoke of Jaime Lannister’s displeasure at having to listen to Brynden. There was still a large dislike of the Lannisters within court, one only exacerbated by Tyrion Lannister’s position in the Dragon Queen’s inner circle.

“Our last intelligence suggests that the Dragon Queen is mobilising her forces to attack the camp, she likely hopes to decimate the Winter forces before moving on to Kings Landing. If the armies are destroyed then her advisors likely believe that Queen Sansa will fold before them, especially if Ser Brynden dies as they most definitely hope.” Ser Davos continued. 

A smirk pulled at the corners of Aegon’s mouth, “They likely think Queen Sansa is some delicate flower or puppet under his control.”

Anyone who had met Sansa let out a laugh at that, even King Stannis. No one who spent any length of time with Sansa would ever call her a puppet, let alone anyone who had met Brynden and witnessed his fierce embodiment of the Tully values.

“Queen Sansa will not surrender.” Jon stated, stepping forwards and picking up the piece that represented his sister in Winterfell, “She has already informed everyone that she will die before surrendering her crown, and has plans in place to insure the succession of the Stark line.”

King Stannis nodded approvingly, “If the Dragon Queen’s dragons are taken care of then I will likely do the same, the Princess Shireen is on her way to Tarth as we speak. I trust Lord Selwyn to care for her and keep her safe from Daenerys Targaryen.” 

“And- and if the Targaryen’s dragons are not taken care of, Your Grace?” A Crownlands lord garbed in blue and white with antlers upon his breast ventured.

Jon did not know who the lord was, or even which House he belonged to. Sansa would have known, but Jon had never paid much attention in their lessons regarding the Noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.

“I will not let her burn the city.” King Stannis said, “I will not let the citizens of Kings Landing burn for my pride, nor will I subject them to the terrors of a Dothraki horde sacking their homes.”

“There are multiple scorpions mounted on every wall,” Oberyn said, gesturing at the second map, the one that showed Kings Landing in far more detail, “If the dragons fly anywhere near the city then we should have a chance to take them down. In addition the last caches of wildfire have been relocated so that they are far from the population of the city. If the dragons do manage to set fire to anything in the city then we shouldn’t have to contend with the destructive powers of wildfire as well at least.”

They all stared at the map for a moment, pondering how horrific the combination of wildfire and dragon fire could have been upon a city already scarred by the green flames. 

“I do have one piece of glad news for you though, my lords.” Theon said, barely a hint of nerves visible behind his facade of a careless swagger, “Queen Yara has written to say that with the death of Lord Euron Greyjoy those captains which had followed him have returned to the Iron Islands with their tails between their legs.”

That was glad news indeed. Without the backing of part of the Iron Fleet the Dragon Queen would find it harder to move her armies around Westeros. And without Euron aiding her there was the possibility that the brutality of her forces would be reduced somewhat.

“You do have our thanks, Prince Theon, for ridding Westeros of Euron Greyjoy.” King Stannis gritted out.

Theon grinned and Jon felt the urge to flee, for it was the grin that Theon wore when he was about to do something incredibly stupid.

“Well, we kinslayers have to stay together, don’t we King Stannis?”

Jon resisted the urge to sigh, it really would be typical of Theon if he managed to cause another war after all this was over.

* * *

“Jon?” Aegon’s voice was tentatively hopeful, “Do you have a moment?”

Jon nodded, “I haven’t anything else I should be doing, no. Do you want to talk here or in the gardens?”

Aegon’s eyebrows drew together as he thought, “Is here alright? I don’t want to be overheard by anyone.”

Jon stepped aside so that Aegon could enter, “Of course. Come on in. Do you want anything to drink?”

Aegon shook his head, “No thank you, I don’t think I could stomach anything at the moment.”

Undoubtedly this would be an unpleasant conversation then, and Jon already found himself wishing that he had come up with some urgent business he needed to attend to.

He led Aegon to a set of overstuffed and far too opulent chairs and gave him the time to speak what was on his mind. 

“Will we be dammed, do you think?” Aegon finally said softly, “For working to kill our aunt? For knowing that if we have the chance to strike the killing blow we may not hesitate?”

_ Uncle Benjen’s chest impaled by Longclaw, his very heart struck with the steel blade. His final words refusing to blame Jon, but warning him all the same. _

“Some of us are already dammed.” Jon breathed, Uncle Benjen’s still grey eyes before his own, his ears ringing with the sound of his last rattling breaths.

A warm hand upon his shoulder forcibly dragged him back to reality and the concerned face of his half brother.

“Jon?” Aegon sounded so concerned, and while his almost Dornish accent was the furthest possible from Robb’s rough Northern accent, Jon could not help but be reminded of him.

“Sorry - sorry, I - I had -“

“Oh.” Understanding flashed across Aegon’s face, “I’m sorry, I should be the one apologising. That question was insensitive of me.”

Jon smiled weakly, and forced down his wish to scream at the memories surging once more behind his eyes, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. To - to answer your question I believe the gods are kinder than that. We may be dammed for killing kin, but surely they will be lenient when we are doing it to save millions from burning?”

He did not believe his own words. 

But they did seem to bring some comfort to Aegon, for his face had smoothed from some of the worry inscribed upon it. 

Jon swallowed as he looked at the still mostly innocent face of his brother, it would be a tragedy indeed if he lost that innocence.

He vowed silently to himself that if it came down to it, he would be the one to kill Daenerys Targaryen, after all, he was already dammed.

* * *

_ Wind beneath his wings, a great breeze that took him higher and higher. Carried upon it was the scent of smoke, and water, and the scent of thousands of living creatures. _

_ His brothers were up ahead; faster than him, more focused than him. _

_ His Mother shouted something, but her voice was carried away by the same wind he rode. It didn’t matter though, not when he could just follow his brothers’ lead. _

_ Red and gold, blue and red, silver and white, a myriad of colours below him. Smoke met his nostrils, and the scent of fear, and something in him started to rumble in excitement. _

_ The high pitch of screams and the clanking of metal grated upon his ears, and he could not help but let out a roar of complaint. His brothers echoed his roar, and yet the men below did not seem to register his complaints. _

_ Instead they screamed louder, their screams reaching an even higher pitch and piercing straight through his skull. _

_ He wanted nothing more than to shut them up, to stop the pain of the screams, but it would make Mother angry if he went against her orders. He did not want to make Mother angry. He wasn’t Drogon, she wouldn’t let him get away with disobeying her. _

_ Mother let Drogon get away with everything, and it usually resulted in the rest of them being punished for his wrongs. _

_ He felt the phantom weight of chains around his neck and legs, the chill of stone all around him, and the bitter knowledge that Drogon was flying free while he was imprisoned. _

_ He wanted to swoop higher, to swoop away from the men and their screams and weapons, but Mother shouted something again, and Drogon started to dive. _

_ He had no choice. He had to dive too. _

_ Mother shouted again, and this time it reached his ears. _

_ “Dracarys!” _

Jon’s eyes shot open, and he bolted up in bed. The taste of fire, of sulphur and charcoal, rested upon his tongue. 

The sight of the Stark and Tully banners were burnt on his eyelids, flashing at him every time he blinked.

Nausea rose in his throat and it was all he could do to lean over the side of his bed so that his vomit fell to the floor instead of his bedcovers. 

He retched and retched, and as he did so the true horror of what he had witnessed filled his mind.

He had to let everyone know that the first true battle of the war had begun. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> If you would like to chat to me about my work find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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